Forget-Me-Not
by lauTOre
Summary: Charlie decides to take on an assignment, which turns out to be a really, really bad idea. Don tries to find out what's going on, but more than just his lack of a higher security clearance hinder his efforts.
1. The Beginning

****Disclaimer:**** Numb3rs and its characters belong to CBS, not to me. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance with actual people or places is purely accidental.  
 ** **Timeline:**** Roughly between seasons two and three, so the team consists of Megan, Colby, and David (and Don, of course).  
 ** **Warning:**** Don't read the rest of this warning if you don't want to read story spoilers. Seriously, stop now. But if you don't like character deaths, be informed that there is something that looks like a character death in the initial chapters of this story (up to chapter eight or nine). No reason to freak out, though – everything is not as it seems. I'm a Charlie-girl, so this is heavily CharlieWhump, DonAngst.  
Another warning: this is a long one, as in 62 chapters plus an epilogue. Don't want to scare you away, just thought you should know what you're getting yourselves into ;)  
 ** **A/N:**** I've written this story several years ago and published it on another fanfiction website. Since I kind of still like it, I've decided to translate it into English and post it here as well. So this is another warning: I don't have a beta and I'm not a native speaker, so this story is bound to have some mistakes, most of them concerning grammar (especially prepositions… hate them) and choice of words. I still hope it's not too bad so that if you decide to read it, you won't be too repelled by what I tentatively consider English language. Feel free to correct me, though – I'd like to learn from my mistakes :)  
 ** **Edit (06/18/18):**** On that note thanks a lot to KCK-Lumcer! Funny thing is that later on you might come across some beers that should be bears. If you spot them (or other free-roaming typos), please feel free to notify me :)

Hope you enjoy!

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1\. The Beginning

Not for the first time this evening, Don's gaze went up to the clock at the wall before it almost automatically jumped back to the cell-phone, which was lying directly next to the cordless phone of the landline on the small table in his living room. It was 9 PM – no, as a matter of fact, it was four minutes __after__ 9 – and he'd actually been able to leave work at a reasonable hour today. However, he hadn't really made use of his leisure time. He'd declined his colleagues' invitation of coming with them to grab a beer and a bite to eat, and even though he was well aware that he wasn't passing any quality time, he was glad he wasn't sitting in some bar right now, but here, relaxed, on his comfortable couch, alone. He needed the quiet, was tired and exhausted; the past week in the office was taking its toll. Besides, he mused, his team probably wouldn't have enjoyed his company all that much anyway, for his tense thoughts didn't really add to his level of gaiety.

After he'd come home, he'd watched today's baseball game on the television, and since he'd just left it turned on, he was now watching an old movie. Well, what counts as watching. To tell the truth, he wasn't really paying attention. If he was being honest with himself, he had to admit that he had no idea what the movie was about, and neither could he remember the game's final score.

His eyes went back to the clock. Since his last check, the second hand had made a bit more than half a round, but the phone remained silent. Don thought about turning the TV back on in order to get through waiting, but told himself that it could only be a matter of seconds now until the phone would ring. Reaching for the remote would be a waste of energy.

He sighed and leaned back deeper into the cushions of his couch, thoughtfully eyeing his beer bottle. Maybe he should have gone out with his team after all. Or he could have spent the evening with his dad, at Charlie's house. That is, no, he couldn't have, his father wasn't home tonight. Don frowned as he tried to remember what it was that his father was up to tonight. Golfing hardly seemed plausible at this time of day, and neither could it be his book club or his volunteer work for the homeless people, those meetings had never been on a Wednesday, as far as Don could tell. So what... right, of course. He'd gone out with Millie.

Another look at the clock. Nine seven and three seconds.

Don sighed and turned the bottle in his hand, thinking that waiting would have been far more agreeable if he could have spent the time with Robin. Too bad she was busy tonight with that business meeting. A rueful smile appeared on his lips. Oh yeah, she was definitely a workaholic, almost as bad as himself. Or, if Don thought well about it, maybe even worse. No wonder the two of them fit together so nicely. G-d, she was such a great woman. He was so damn lucky to have her, so he'd better make sure not to mess this up again. But things were looking good, really good, they had a real solid relationship, steady, and honest. Yeah, she could really be the one...

Nine eleven and forty-one seconds.

"You're late, Chuck," Don mumbled. His eyes were resting on the two phoning devices for a long time. Maybe he should try to reach him and ask what was going on…?

"Don't make a fool of yourself," Don admonished himself. __And stop talking to yourself__ , he silently added. He had better things to do than acquiring a multiple personality disorder. Or at least he __would__ have better things to do if Charlie finally condescended to call him. One thing was certain, Don wouldn't start acting as a concerned father-substitute and assail him with phone calls, especially because…

Damn. For a moment there, he'd actually forgotten about that. Of course he wasn't going to assail Charlie with phone calls, because he couldn't: he had no number by which to reach his brother.

While Don gave the clock another glance (nine fourteen and thirteen seconds), he reached towards the phone, not really knowing whom he was going to call, but then he halted abruptly. There was no reason for such activism. Charlie's call was overdue for fourteen minutes – but fourteen minutes was nothing. Don knew his brother. If Charlie had immersed himself in a math problem, he could easily be late half an hour, certainly fourteen minutes. No, there was no reason why Don should be worried just because Charlie was a little late.

Even though Charlie had called him on time __every__ time during the past four weeks.

And even though Don had no idea where he was.

No, no reason to worry. Everything was just fine.

Don sighed and ran his hands over his face. Just whom the hell was he kidding?

Of course he knew that Charlie merely did calculations, that he wasn't out in the field. Of course he knew that civilians were always well protected, especially in secret operations. Still, he was worried.

He knew that it was probably completely exaggerated. However, that didn't mean he could just turn off that nagging voice in the back of his head, and going by the data he had gathered in that respect over the last couple of weeks, he wasn't going to get a good night's sleep before he knew that his brother was safely back home. And by now, he really wouldn't mind sleeping through a night for a change.

For twenty-eight days now, his brother had been working as a consultant for some law enforcement agency on some secret project that had been estimated to last for about a month. That was everything that Don knew. He didn't know what exactly his brother's task was or what the project was about, he didn't know where Charlie was, hell, he didn't even know whom he was working for.

Not that he hadn't tried to find out. At the beginning of Charlie's assignment, he'd been tormented by the circumstance of not knowing anything about the details of this assignment. Usually, he knew at least the place or the agency for which Charlie was working, or he wasn't even aware that his brother was working on something at all because he was able to do the calculations from home. This time, however, Charlie was gone for a month and Don had no idea how dangerous the assignment might be.

It was a small consolation that Charlie never ceased to assure him that everything was fine, that Don shouldn't worry. They talked on the phone often, though never for any length of time. Roughly speaking they were talking to each other about every other evening, but Charlie always knew when he'd call the next time, and he was always true to his word. He couldn't tell Don anything about his assignment, but he knew that this form on helplessness wasn't easy on his big brother, and he tried to make the situation easier on him by calling him regularly.

Don smiled as his memory offered him some chunks of words from his conversations with his brother. __I can imagine that you're upset, but you know perfectly well that I can't tell you anything, Don… No, Don, I really can't, and now stop pestering me…__ _ _Tell Dad not to worry about me__ _ _. I'm fine here, really.__ _ _And I__ _ _am__ _ _eating__ _ _… I really made some ground today,__ _ _it's really getting easier to__ _ _get__ _ _in__ _ _to__ _ _the zone__ _ _… I think I'll probably be back for the weekend. I already told Dad to buy steaks,__ _ _f__ _ _or that's something that's really lacking here. I've already thought about drawing up an equation that shows how everyone's performance increases proportionally to the number of steaks eaten…__

The steak-equation had been the day before yesterday, during their last conversation. Charlie had been in a good mood; the assignment was nearing its end and everything seemed to go smoothly. __Maybe he's already on his way home?__ it suddenly occurred to Don. __Maybe that's why he doesn't call?__

But he knew that was nonsense. Charlie would have told him. And if he said he'd be done by the weekend, he'd be done by the weekend and not earlier, at least not that much.

But then what __was__ the reason for Charlie being late?

 _Don't think about it_ , Don told himself. __He's gonna tell you what's holding him up.__ Maybe they'd been able to make some unforeseeable progress and that was why Charlie couldn't or didn't want to leave for the phone. Or he was being delayed by somebody who wanted to talk to him. Or he was currently on the phone with Amita or their dad or Larry and didn't want to end the conversation abruptly. There was surely a rational explanation. Charlie was going to call, sooner or later. Don gave him time until ten o'clock. He didn't know what he was going to do then, but he needed the deadline. However, Charlie would surely have called him way before that and given him an explanation for the delay. No, there was no way he was going to be later than an hour.

That he was more than a little wrong about his estimation of the delay, that it would take much longer until he'd get some information concerning his brother, and that he'd be going through hell until then – no, those were things that Don was still blissfully unaware of.


	2. Hold the Line

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1

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2\. Hold the Line

Thoroughly infuriated, Don threw the receiver back onto its cradle, just as Megan entered the cubicle and laid down her coat.

'"Morning! Bad mood?" she greeted him and he easily detected that _she_ was in no bad mood.

"Great deduction," Don growled at her. Since he had already turned back towards his computer screen to find further phone numbers he could call, he missed the expression on her face, a mix of hurt, apprehension and worry.

"What's going on?" she asked in a completely different tone than before. Don could literally hear from her voice that she was frowning.

"Nothing," he said in as calm a voice as he could. Still, he sounded unmistakably bitter.

Megan sighed. "You do realize that I can only help you if I know what's going on, right?"

"Did I ask for your help?"

Megan was silent and Don, feeling her stern stare in his back, understood that he couldn't go on like this. He buried his face in his hands, and his mood deteriorated further when he realized that he was already so exhausted so early in the morning.

He rubbed his eyes briefly before turning towards her to apologize. "I'm sorry, Megan. It's just…"

He fell silent and tried to shoo the rest of the sentence away by moving his hand in a slightly jittery manner, but Megan wouldn't let go and increased the effect of her expectant look by using an auditory means: "Yeah?"

Don sighed heavily and his hands ran once more over his tired face. "It's about Charlie," he finally admitted, not at all sure whether he was doing the right thing by confiding in her.

"Oh," Megan was about to utter, but managed to hold herself back. Although she was surprised by Don's openness, she was determined to hear the rest of the story, so it would be bad advice to interrupt Don by some kind of hypothesis concerning familial quarrels.

"He should have called yesterday, but he didn't."

Megan started paying attention now. For a moment there, she had actually forgotten that Charlie was currently embarked on that secret mission of his. That made the window of opportunity for some sort of argument between the brothers that much smaller. Also Don's latest words didn't indicate something of the kind. Something else seemed to be going on and Megan was curious what was about to come, but her boss had fallen silent again. "So?" she pressed.

"Nothing 'so'!" Don almost shouted. "He hasn't called since, and no one else seems to be willing to give me any sort of information! No one seems to know anything, or they tell me at once that my clearance isn't high enough!"

Megan smiled at her boss with pity. She knew all to well how much the two brothers cared for each other – probably better than they themselves – and she was well aware how hard hard it was for Don to know nothing whatsoever about Charlie's whereabouts. She'd always found it curious that Don, who at first glance seemed to be so self-reliant in every aspect of his life, was feeling so insecure with regards to his little brother that he just wouldn't abandon the role of his guardian simply out of fear that Charlie might no longer need him. She found it even more curious that Charlie seemed to be completely unaware of that.

So it wasn't hard to figure out why Don would overreact in this situation, but that didn't mean that Megan had to support this ado about nothing. After all, she knew the ways those scientists' minds worked, her boyfriend being one. She knew very well how confused and forgetful those geniuses tended to be.

"Don – you know very well that the fact that Charlie hasn't called you doesn't mean anything. You know how he gets when he's around his numbers. He's probably just forgotten to call you."

Don drew in air, sharply. He didn't want to get mad again, but he was about to reach his breaking point and the amount of tension inside him had lowered the bar for him to show emotion. If Megan didn't stop soon with that stupid look that told him all too clearly how exaggerated and irrational he was acting, he didn't make any promises.

"Look, I'm just trying to figure out where he is and what he's doing. I can't see what harm could be done if they finally told me."

As soon as the words were out, he felt utterly stupid, like a sulking child that didn't get his lolly. Besides, he had a vague suspicion that Megan was more aware of his state of mind than he would have liked her to be.

Well, at least she didn't seem to intend to use her knowledge against him, but rather to try and help him. "Have you already tried other FBI units?" she asked. "Or the NSA? Charlie consults for them too every now and then, doesn't he?"

Don sighed and noticed that his breathing accelerated, always a certain sign that his level of irritation was increasing. "Of course I asked them, but do you really think they'll tell me something? Not a single word, not even whether or not Charlie's working for them."

"What about calling in old favors?"

"I've already tried," Don murmured. "Right in the beginning."

Despite his anger, he felt as if she'd caught him with his hand in the cookie-jar. He knew that others tended to consider him a control freak sometimes.

Megan might have thought that too, Don wasn't sure, but in any case she managed to keep her statement accusation-free. "Well, in that case… you'll just have to wait until Charlie calls you back. Probably tonight, right?"

Don stared at her. Megan was actually serious. She was asking him to continue sitting around the remainder of the day and doing his job as though nothing had happened.

 _Had_ something happened?

Don shook his head. This whole thing was driving him nuts. He was sure he was about to lose his mind. Were his worries exaggerated? Charlie hadn't called him last night – so what? Usually they weren't talking every other day either. Usually, however, Don had at least a faint notion of where his brother was.

A thought occurred to him and almost made him laugh out loud. He thought about how he would have reacted a few years back in a similar situation, and the fact was: he might not even have noticed Charlie was gone, let alone tried to track him down. No, before they'd started working together, their relationship had been practically non-existing, and the words that were exchanged between them were based on the utmost necessities. Sure, he'd paid attention to what their dad would mention to him about what Charlie was up to, but he wouldn't have dreamed of asking himself and thus showing interest in his brother's life. There had just been too many issues between them, too much stuff that had accumulated during their childhood and their mother's sickness, or so they had thought at the time. What a curious thing pride was.

"Have you already tried him on his cell?"

Don returned to the present and punished Megan with a bitter look. "He doesn't have it with him," he replied through clenched teeth.

"Oh… sorry, I forgot."

 _Lucky you,_ Don thought. He hadn't forgotten, never for long anyway, at least not since that time three weeks ago when the thought had occurred to him that he could try finding Charlie's whereabouts by locating the GPS signal of his cell. Then, however, he had remembered that they – whoever 'they' were – had made him (Charlie had paraphrased that by 'advised him to') leave his cell at home, exactly to avoid such cases. And the number by which Charlie always called was withheld.

"What does your father say about this? Or Larry, or Amita?"

Don looked up at Megan and shook his head. "Nothing. They don't know that Charlie didn't call last night. I don't want them to worry."

There was that familiar upset-unbelieving look back on Megan's face. "But you've already called half of the whole American law enforcement?"

"Look, I just wanna know where Charlie is, alright? Can't hurt if they finally tell me."

"Listen, Don, I don't mean to criticize you," Megan started and her tone left no doubt for Don that she was about to say something he would be sure was criticism, "but don't you think that this… this urge to control things is slightly exaggerated? Why don't you try calling Larry, Amita and your Dad first, maybe they know something."

Don cast her a doubtful look, but she gave him an encouraging smile. Well, why not. He could only make everyone else dissolve into panic, what else was there to lose.

* * *

"Eppes."

"Hi Dad."

"Donnie! How are you?" It took only half a second for his father's tone to become concerned. "Why are you calling? Did something happen?"

"No, Dad, everything's alright. I just wondered if maybe you've heard from Charlie lately."

"Charlie? No, not since the day before yesterday. Why do you ask?"

The concern in his father's voice had increased and Don tried hard to make it vanish again. "Oh, just like that. I got a bit confused; I thought he wanted to call me yesterday, but seems like I misunderstood." Don hoped that his father would accept his story. Even though his voice didn't sound as casual as he would have liked it to be.

"Are you sure?"

 _Can't you just have a little trust in your son? Geez…_ "'Course, Dad. Everything's fine. See you later!"

"Okay, bye, Don…"

But Don had already hung up.

Also the two ensuing phone calls weren't helping and Don felt himself fall back into the depths of his bad mood. He just didn't understand what could be so hard about figuring out where Charlie was. He was a federal agent, for G-d's sake, he should be able to figure out his own brother's whereabouts. And he probably would have been able to if it hadn't been for all those people acting like he was trying to unveil the biggest secret their intelligence service was harboring.

He sighed. Just why did no one care to help him? Why was this whole project so damn secret? And why had not even Charlie told him anything? Of course, Don knew the security regulations and knew that there was a reason for them to exist, that there were things that had to remain secret to protect national security, but still… What could be so important that they would make such a fuss about not letting the details of this assignment become known to _anybody_?

Without further progress on the matter, Don went back to his apartment after work. During the ride in his SUV, he was meticulous about making sure his cell was turned on and in reach. In hindsight it was nothing less than a miracle that, despite all the glances at the display every few seconds, he didn't cause an accident.

When he arrived at home, Don felt himself uncomfortably taken back to the night before as he sat down on his couch, beer in his hand, the cell on the table. He had put the cordless back in the cradle on the side table in the hallway to make sure it remained charged. The door to the hallway remained open, though.

At ten minutes before 9, he even made sure that his cell had service and that the cordless was indeed plugged in correctly. Yeah, everything was set – everything ready for Charlie to call.

That night, Don never took his eyes away from the clock while the large second hand made his rounds, the minute hand slowly chasing him, and even the small hour hand made progress on his circular path, an uneven race where the outcome was evident right from the beginning to everyone who cared to look. The hours passed and Don's beer supply grew smaller and smaller.

Charlie didn't call.


	3. The Hope of the Desperate

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1

 **A/N:** Thanks a lot to Mega07ghost! It helped a lot to get a second opinion on the comprehensibility of my writing. And, of course, reviews are always welcome :)  
Hope you enjoy!

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3\. The Hope of the Desperate

Sometime during the night, Don must have fallen asleep, for when he awoke the next morning, it happened in a position that was halfway sitting up, halfway lying down on his couch. A position that, after a couple of hours, was more than uncomfortable, as he now knew.

Don swallowed hard when he realized what was happening: Charlie hadn't called. Don hadn't just gotten the day wrong. Charlie should have called Wednesday, today was Friday. He hadn't heard from his brother for four days – well, okay, for three days and a half. During all the time his brother had been busy with that assignment, no wating period had ever been that long, especially not without warning. Charlie had spoken on the phone every day with at least one of them for a couple of minutes. And since also his father, Amita and Larry hadn't heard from him…

In spite of himself Don shuddered. What the hell was happening? What was going on? Why didn't Charlie call?

He was certain that there had to be a simple, rational explanation. He just didn't know if he would like it.

 _Come on, don't freak out,_ he forced himself to remain calm. He just had to approach this matter logically and find out where Charlie was and why he didn't call.

The problem was that he'd already tried that. And he didn't have any results. Nobody would help him. Nobody told him anything. Nobody seemed to know anything about his little brother. Charlie was gone. Somewhere. And he didn't call.

He was missing.

Another shudder ran through Don's body when he understood what his thoughts were trying to tell him. _Charlie's missing._ Untraceable. As if he had fallen victim to a crime.

Don's heart nearly stopped. Maybe he _had_ fallen victim to a crime? Maybe that was the reason, maybe he'd been kidnapped, maybe… worse.

 _No_ , Don tried to convince himself, _no, surely not that._ He felt, as if it wasn't really him, how his body started shaking. _No. No, not Charlie. There's a logical explanation for everything._

Don looked around frantically, around him, behind him, but of course there was nobody here. Still – _there's a logical explanation for everything_ – this phrase had soun… this phrase sounded so much like Charlie that Don had been certain his brother must have whispered it into his ear.

But around him, there was nothing but emptiness.

* * *

Also during the day, Charlie didn't call, and panic started to settle in permanently in Don's body. He still couldn't do anything, but he knew: the longer Charlie was missing, the greater the probability that everything was far less harmless than Don tried to tell himself.

He was tensed and stressed, permanently, and whoever tried to have a normal conversation with him soon had to realize the pointlessness of his endeavour. For it didn't matter where Don was or what he was doing, in his mind there was always that question that couldn't be shooed away as long as there wasn't an answer: _What's going on with Charlie?_

More and more, however, Don began doubting if he would ever get an answer. The panic inside him grew more intense. It was as if Charlie had vanished from the face of the earth, and he couldn't find a way to trace his brother anymore.

At least not as a civilian. But after all, he had excellent ties to law enforcement agencies if he wanted to make Charlie's case official. And he did want that. Kind of. For although he wanted to know where his brother was, he had a sick feeling when he thought about including the FBI. Not only did he cringe inside when he thought about calling this matter a 'case', like he called so many matters of his job so numerous times without thinking, but it would also settle definitely that Charlie was a missing person.

Thinking about it rationally, however, there wasn't a reason to hesitate.

* * *

Don was glad that his AD had managed to squeeze him in on such short notice. He felt somewhat out of place; whenever he came here, it was usually because he was ordered to and not on his own account. Maybe that was why he was a bit more nervous than usual. Or maybe the nervousness was founded in his fear that Jonathan D. Stevens, the assistant director, would refuse his request.

Don tried to deduce from his boss's features how much he already knew, but Stevens' face was stony and neutral.

"I'm not sure if you've heard," Don started after the greeting, hating himself for the uncertain tone in his voice. He'd have to do something about that. "But my –" Don faltered and finally forced himself to adopt a more professional behavior. "But a consultant for the FBI has been declared missing."

Don wasn't sure, but for a moment he thought he could see a twitch around the corners of Stevens' mouth. "It has come to my attention," he answered, and he seemed a bit more human than usual when he added: "You can stop walking on eggshells, Agent. I'm well aware that you don't care about our consultant, but about your brother."

Don had been fearing aforehand that he would insinuate he had a personal motivation, and he came prepared. "Sir, nonetheless –"

But Stevens cut him off. "Nonetheless he's one of our consultants who, with some probability, is currently situated outside the state of California, if not outside the United States. Since I know he's been working for another agency, I don't know what is already done in order to find him, but in general, the case is within our jurisdiction. I assume that you've come here to request that we take over the case from LAPD because you want to investigate the case yourself?"

Don couldn't help but feel grateful towards his boss for his quick thinking. Only a few hours earlier, after a short and quiet agreement with his father, Amita and Larry, he had gone to LAPD headquarters to declare Charlie a missing person. Already then, he'd planned to claim jurisdiction over the case. However, he hadn't been willing to risk losing any more time in case Stevens would turn down his request to investigate the case. In any event he was more than glad that the LAPD officer he'd been talking to had assured him that, considering the mysterious circumstances, they would handle the case at once although the critical window of 48 hours wouldn't close until later that night, two days after the missed phone call.

Don was silent after his boss's words and just looked at him, daring to hope. Stevens noticed the look and had no difficulty interpreting it. "I'll see what I can do. But at least until further notice, you and your team can investigate the case." He smiled faintly. "After all, you'll have to bring back our consultant."

Don stood almost automatically; he felt as if someone had taken a huge burden from his shoulders. He could finally do something!

He bid the AD goodbye and left the office with mixed feelings. One burden had been taken off him, but another had been placed on him. He'd now have to inform his team and they'd investigate Charlie's disappearance officially as an FBI case.

Stevens watched him leave. He sighed softly. He hadn't wanted to admit it in front of his usually so tough agent, but he wasn't at all sure what to think about this whole mess. A consultant for various, partly secret institutions who went missing from one day to the other?

That didn't sound good.

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Amita was shivering. It hadn't eluded her that she'd been somewhat cold for several days now, as if her subconscious was trying to tell her something. It wasn't hard to figure out what it was. One week ago, Charlie's daily phone calls had stopped abruptly and nobody had heard a word from him since then. By now, he'd been declared missing, they were looking for him, and during the whole time, Amita felt as if her pulse was constantly at 180.

It didn't elude her either that Larry next to her was extremely upset as well. Neither of them knew why the head of CalSci wanted to see them, but neither of them was having a good feeling about it.

"Thank you both for stopping by," Dr. Marsh greeted them and they refrained from pointing out that they had hardly had a choice after he'd ordered them to come. "As far as I'm aware, the two of you are those among the faculty closest to Dr. Eppes, am I right?"

They nodded.

The head continued. "Then maybe you can clear something up for me. It had been planned that Charles would be back at teaching yesterday. However, he didn't show up and neither did he talk to administration to take a leave of absence. Are you maybe able to explain that?"

Instead of answering Amita had to ask a question herself: "You don't know either? Nobody has said anything to you about where he is?" She had hoped so much that this awful agency had once more resolved the whole affair behind everyone's back, that at least the administration of CalSci, if nobody else, knew something, that the connection between Charlie and their world hadn't broken off completely yet…

"No, we don't know anything, that's why I'm asking you."

Amita had to take some deep breaths in order to stay calm and so it was Larry who answered. "Unfortunately, we don't know anything either. Charles has disappeared. Nobody knows where he currently is."

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At first sight, it might look like a black cloth with some bright spots. It was so much more than that, though, it was much more many-faceted. It was nothing and everything. The night sky was the portal leading out of the world and into the world, the place beholding all the answers and all the questions.

But as much as Larry was staring into the sky – he couldn't find the answer. He knew that Charles had to be _somewhere_ under this same sky at this moment –

Larry paused. He didn't even know that. Charlie could just as well have made himself Larry's dream come true and flown into space.

The next instant, Larry dismissed the thought. That was a bit too far-fetched, after all. However, he couldn't shake the thought that his space theory would have at least explained why Charles seemed to have disappeared into thin air.

Larry was still hoping that there was a rational explanation for everything, but by now, he was having a hard time finding rational explanations he was willing to entertain. After all, there was no denying it: Charlie had all of a sudden disappeared without a trace. And even if he'd been brought into a safe house or something like that, even if his disappearance had been arranged to ensure his safety – then they would have told at least his family, if not where he was, then at least that it was happening. That hadn't happened though.

And even if they had found it necessary to fake Charlie's death – Larry shuddered at the thought –, they still would have made the news public, but wouldn't just have said nothing.

No, the more time passed, the more Larry found himself nursing the suspicion that Charles' disappearance might be final.

* * *

 **A/N:** About the 48 hour window: By now I know that it's usually 24 hours (and I've also learned that this isn't a strict rule, but that investigation can usually start sooner when there are suspicious circumstances involved, just like in this case). I didn't change it though because I'm sure I would have overlooked some consequential errors then, and I probably should have changed the first two chapters. At least this way, the story in itself is (well… should be) coherent.


	4. The Panic of the Desperate

**A/N:** Thank you for your reviews, becky01 and Mega07ghost! I was actually a bit apprehensive about the lack of dialogues in these first few chapters, so I'm glad you don't seem to mind. There will be more dialogues later on, but I'll continue to rely heavily on introspection.  
So, the next chapter's up. I'm actually a bit sorry about this one. Please don't hate me. I'll try to update soon.

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4\. The Panic of the Desperate

Don's cell was ringing. He answered it, only to be called to a crime scene. He got into his SUV and drove to the scene through the darkness. A short time afterwards, he arrived at the parking garage and spotted David in front of him who was just turning away from a member of the crime scene unit and towards Don.

"One body, Caucasian, male, about thirty years old, hasn't been ID'd yet. Shot in the abdomen; COD probably exsanguination."

Don nodded. "That him?" he asked, pointing with a curt movement of his head towards the wraithlike figure lying on the concrete floor in front of a small blue car.

"Yeah. The crime scene unit is done, you can take a look around."

David didn't have to tell him twice. Don stepped closer to the dead body. His gaze was fixed upon the floor where stains of blood were covering the concrete, leading towards the body which was sprawled before him on his stomach. Don knelt down and turned it around.

Since his gaze had been following the blood stains, the first thing his eyes took in were the gun shot wound and the large red stains on the victim's T-shirt. It wasn't until some seconds later that his gaze fell upon the dead man's face.

Only now did Don manage to match those dark curls to a person from his memory, because now the familiar facial features were also adding clues. Even though those features were slightly contorted due to the pain and the blood loss, they were recognizable beyond a doubt, especially in combination with those eyes that were staring up at him accusingly. No, everything considered there was no doubt that this dead man was his brother Charlie.

"No," Don whispered as soon as he realized what was happening. "No," he said in a low voice, but with every other word his voice became louder, albeit not stronger. "No… No! NO! NOOOO!"

* * *

"Donnie."

A hand was holding him at his wrist. Don tried to fight it, he didn't want to be held right now, he wanted to let his pain go, make it go away, _scream_ it go away.

"Donnie, calm down."

Don's eyes popped open and his pupils flew across the room until they found his father. "Dad, Charlie…"

"Shhh," Alan tried to calm him down, as if Don were a child. "Stay calm. Don't say anything now. It was only a nightmare."

Don – too confused to find out what was real and what was a dream – stared up at his father pleadingly. He had to know, he had to know if –

"What about Charlie? Where is he?"

Alan looked down at the comforter and that was enough of an answer for Don. His breathing was still rapid. He hadn't imagined everything in his nightmare. The key fact, the fact that for Don was the most painful and gruesome, hadn't been conjured up by his subconscious, but by life's own brutal and sick doing. It should have been clear to Don right from the beginning. His subconscious would have never been able, not without cause, to present him with such a horror scenario. It could summon up horror and fear only where those two had already found a place to stay.

"Oh G-d…" Don was pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes, but even doing that he couldn't hide his tears from his father. What the hell had that been? Why was his mind playing such damn tricks to him? Charlie wasn't dead, _he wasn't dead!_

By now, more than four weeks had passed since Charlie's last phone call, and they weren't making any progress in the case. They could still only assume for whom Charlie was or had been working. Every agency claimed to know nothing about the matter. They had followed up every clue, also the slightest ones, like if there was any chance that there had been common criminals posing as federal agents or else in order to get Charlie to come with him and do who knows what with him. Without success. Still – he couldn't give up, he had to go on, on and on, and he just couldn't let himself entertain such pessimistic fears!

Don felt like a traitor. In his mind, he had just killed Charlie, he had killed his brother. Why? There was no reason! Charlie was alive, and every thought implying the opposite was a lie! He would come back to them, soon. There was a totally reasonable explanation for everything, an explanation that didn't cause any bad dreams. Certainly.

Hopefully.

* * *

The next morning, the past night's horror still hadn't left from Don's eyes. The queasy feeling in his stomach increased even more when he was called to his boss.

Jonathan D. Stevens, the assistant director, looked up from his files when Don softly entered his office. "Please sit down, agent," he greeted him and Don wordlessly followed the invitation. "I assume you know why you are here?"

Don slowly shook his head. "No, Sir."

Stevens sighed. "Agent Eppes, you and your team have been handling a missing person's case for four weeks now without having been able to show any significant progress. I am aware that you are affected personally by this case; still, your workforce is needed on other cases. I am truly sorry to have to tell you this, but from now on, your brother's disappearing will be considered a cold case until there will be new developments."

"But, Director –"

"This isn't open for negotiation, Agent Eppes. The decision has been made. Stop chasing ghosts."

"Sir, I can't –"

"You'll have to. I'm sorry, but there is nothing I can do for you; the decision has been made up on top. You'll have to accept it, Agent. There's nothing you can do to change it, anyway." He paused, not looking Don in the eye, then said dismissively, "Enjoy your free weekend."

* * *

 _Enjoy your free weekend._ Had Stevens said that to taunt him? In any case, when he said goodbye to his team that evening, he couldn't imagine, try as he might, how he was going to make this weekend sufferable, let alone enjoyable.

Since Robin was currently attending a conference in Memphis, he probably would have spent the weekend with Charlie. Maybe they would have gone hiking… or to the batting cages… or to the park… or they just would have spent a nice evening with their father at Charlie's…

They'd had much too few of such moments. Work had always come in the way, as though it had been more important than everything. But what mattered more than anything were the people in one's heart, right?

Don grimaced in a way so that his features had some distant similarity with a smile. _The people in one's heart…_ So it seemed fairly obvious what he was going to do with his free time. If he couldn't spend it with Charlie or with Robin, then at least with his father. And as soon as Charlie was with them again, they would catch up on all those things they had been missing until now.

Don tried not to pay attention to the signs of panic that a jolt of memory about his nightmare brought about, to the increased breathing rhythm, the tearing sensation in his chest, the unshed tears that were pressing against his eyes from behind…

It wasn't too late yet. They would be able to make everything right again. G-d, Charlie had to be _somewhere_ in this world! It was only a matter of time until they'd find him. Then they'd all be together again. Everything would be fine. There was no doubt that Charlie was fine and that he would come back soon.

No. No doubt… no doubt at all… surely…

 _And if you're wrong?_

With an amount of determination he could rarely find these days, Don put the voice aside. He knew that Charlie was still alive. He knew it with certainty. Nobody would be able to convince him otherwise. And wherever he was – Don would find him. No matter what Stevens and the others might say.

* * *

It wasn't a merry evening that Don spent with his father, but for both of them it was easier to spend it in the respectively other one's company. This way, at least, they didn't feel quite as anchorless. Don would have felt better, however, if the depressing news hadn't pulled him down.

He still hadn't told his father about his conversation with his boss that morning. He just couldn't bring himself to explain to his father that the agencies were giving up on the search. And why bother? After all, it wouldn't change a thing. It was clear for Don that he would continue his search for his brother until he had found him. No matter if he had outside help or not.

For a long time, they just sat in the living room in silence. The TV was on without anyone taking much notice. Neither of them could think of anything important enough to bother speaking.

Don was finally feeling the mental exhaustion of the past few weeks wearing him down. Numbly he wondered if he should really get up the next day. Since he didn't have to go to work, what reason would there be to get out of bed? Considering things that way, he could just as well stay here in this comfortable armchair, let himself float, entertain the hope that everything was going to be fine, dreaming that Charlie was working in his garage right now, standing at the blackboards and performing some of his mathematical magic tricks…

"Good night."

Alan's voice jolted him out of his slumber. He sat himself upright and watched his dad stand up heavily from the second armchair, dragging himself up the stairs. "Night, Dad," he said in a low voice. He couldn't help but feel admiration for his father, for showing some kind of normalcy although he had to realize just as well as Don what was going on, that they were losing Charlie.

Don swallowed. Had he really thought that right now? Had he – No. No, he couldn't think like that. That would be heinous treason. No, if his father managed to maintain hope, then Don sure as hell wouldn't let himself down.

With some considerable effort, he too stood from his armchair and followed his father upstairs in order to spend the night as he should in his old childhood bedroom. No reason to get apathetic. Always uphold appearances. If they acted like everything was fine, then reality would sooner or later have to believe them and bring them Charlie back.

They just had to hope.

* * *

Saturday morning woke Don with its Californian sun. He opened his eyes and through his window saw the cloudless blue sky. Don was certain that it was already warm outside and that it would get even warmer. A perfect day for the beach or just to relax. A perfect free weekend.

Only that it could never be perfect without Charlie.

Don sighed and closed his eyes once more before he freed himself from his bed with a jolt. Today was his day off, that was good. It meant that he'd be free to take care of his brother. He had to be _somewhere_ , after all.

Alan was already in the kitchen making coffee. "Morning, Dad."

"Morning, Donnie."

His father was a morning person, already in a good mood when getting up. It wasn't hard for Don however to figure out why his father's morning greetings had been so dull for the past four weeks. His enthusiasm was gone and had given way to an earnestness that was almost impossible to bear. And those eyes… Whenever Alan looked at him, Don could read in those pupils wide with fear that one question his father couldn't let go of anymore, _Do you know where he is yet?_

It was impossible to have a conversation that didn't feel strained and that was why Don escaped outside. His father hadn't brought in the mail yet and so it gave him the perfect excuse.

Only few moments later, Don silently cursed himself. He flipped through the mail and every time he read Charlie's name, he felt his heart contract painfully. _I have to find him, I just have –_

Don stopped abruptly. One of the letters was addressed to his father. For a few wonderful moments Don was relieved he didn't have to read his brother's name yet again before the strangeness of the envelope occurred to him. It was, without a doubt, an official letter. No bill though. The seal on the envelope didn't leave any doubt that the letter had been sent from a governmental institution.

With a jolt, Don felt electrified. He could think of only one reason why the government would write to his father, and he had a very specific suspicion that the letter would not only be able to explain Charlie's absence, but also yield them a reason for it that he rather wouldn't hear. But he prohibited himself from thinking about what this letter might mean.

His body felt numb and he took the last few steps like a sleepwalker, never seeming to reach his destination, namely his father standing next to the already half set breakfast table. When Alan looked at him, Don was certain to see his own fear mirrored in those eyes, but in order to find out what was going on, there was only one thing they could do.

A sudden weakness took hold of Alan and he had to lower himself down onto one of the chairs next to the table. With trembling hands, he opened the letter and hastily skimmed through the lines. Don thought he was about to throw up as he watched his father's eyes widen and the hands that were holding the letter cramping up as if with some deep-felt agony. At last, those widened eyes stared into emptiness, and Don tore the document out of his father's insentient fingers.

Don stared at the sheet of paper in his hands, stared at the black letters and at the painfully glaring white between them. He stood rigidly. He wasn't capable of any action. His hands' trembling was his only movement.

Don felt hot and cold. But since his mind was numbing his body, he only felt that as if from far away.

He thought he could feel a lump rise up in his throat and an unbelievingly restrictive feeling of emptiness spread slowly and relentlessly in his stomach. His heart was racing in his chest.

Heat shot up into Don's head. His eyes flew over the lines in front of him. _Please, no, please, please…_

The words didn't seem to find a way into his mind. He didn't understand what the letter was saying. He didn't want to understand.

One single sentence aroused his attention. One single sentence destroyed his life.

 _Therefore we regret having to inform you that in the course of serving his country, your son, Professor Doctor Charles Edward Eppes, has succumbed to his severe injuries._


	5. No

**A/N:** New chapter – pretty soon, just like I promised. Didn't promise things would get better, though.

* * *

5\. No.

No.

No.

No.

No. That couldn't be true. He must have misunderstood. Charlie couldn't be dead. Charlie had to live. He had to be alive. This was a mistake.

He hardly felt himself shaking his head. He couldn't believe it. It couldn't be true. Charlie had to be alive. He just couldn't –

But it was there! Black on white! … _we regret having to inform you that… Charles Edward Eppes… has succumbed to his severe injuries…_

Has succumbed to his injuries.

There was no margin of error.

The trembling of Don's hands spread out into his whole body. A shudder ran down his spine. It just wasn't possible…

Desperation arose within him, grew, swelled up, inundated him. He wanted to get away, wanted to get to Charlie, wanted everything to be a dream, wanted to wake up, wanted to cry out, wanted to rip his soul out of his body, wanted to give part of it to Charlie…

He couldn't. Charlie was dead.

Dead.

Charlie.

His brother.

Dead.

Don didn't get it. He didn't understand what that was supposed to mean. _Charlie is dead._ What did those words mean? Don had to find out their meaning, but he couldn't think about it, it would break him if he understood those words. But neither could he bear remaining in this balance that had been holding him in its spell for so long, since his brother had disappeared, this balance that he had lived in for so long, until now, now that he had received this message which destroyed the balance and brought him back down.

A crash-landing. Whether he would ever be able to get up again remained uncertain.

Crash-landing… He now knew the answer, the answer he'd been waiting for during all those weeks, the answer he'd been dreading. Charlie was dead.

"Oh my G-d."

The words had barely been able to leave Don's mouth; only few air molecules that had been induced to vibrations had been able to find their way past his lips, around his hand. And although Don didn't feel that shaking hand, it still seemed to be able to serve another purpose, for all of a sudden, he felt very sick.

His knees buckled and somehow his subconscious managed to let his body fall onto a chair.

The shaking of his head grew more vehement. It couldn't be. This couldn't be happening. It just wasn't possible that Charlie was dead. There had to be a perfectly simple explanation for all this. And for the fact that Charlie hadn't called even once during the past month.

Don lost the ground beneath his feet. He understood. Slowly. His soul was still struggling against the news. But his mind had understood. This _was_ the explanation. The explanation for everything that had been happening. The explanation that made everything logical.

Logical, yes. But not comprehensible.

Beseeching him for reassurance and filled with fear, Don was searching for his father's eyes. It couldn't be, right, he must have misunderstood, and until now, his father had always been there to explain the world to him. At least in all those circumstances when Charlie didn't happen to be around.

But now… It looked like Don was on his own with this one, without any kind of support. His father didn't seem capable of understanding himself what had happened, much less of telling Don what there was to be done now. And Charlie…

 _G-d, Charlie…_

The tears came. Don didn't try to stop them. Charlie… It was true. His brother wasn't there anymore. And he was never coming back, ever. He would never again step through the door, talking about some kind of mathematical equation. He would never again stare into the koi pond in deep concentration. He would never again stand before his blackboards. He wouldn't do anything anymore. He was dead. Dead and gone. Just not there anymore.

 _No… no, please, please…_

He still couldn't believe it. But it was true. Charlie was dead. And he wouldn't be able to change that.

3-1-4-1-5-9-2-6-5-3-5-8-9-7-9-3-2-3-8-4-6

Alan was hot. And cold. He was trembling and felt as if he had a fever. He was breathing rapidly, but no oxygen seemed to be able to get into his lungs. Just like with Charlie's lungs that were now lying somewhere, in a dead body, alone, left behind…

Two kinds of fluid tried to leave Alan's body at the same time. The tears were faster, but the other fluid gave him enough time to stagger into the kitchen and bend over the sink.

The disgusting taste in his mouth reminded him even more of death and decay and he remained in his bent-over position. He didn't have the strength to straighten himself. Tears were streaming down his face. It couldn't be, it just couldn't be, it couldn't…

Alan tried to understand what had happened and at the same time to ignore the truth. He wanted to know because he had to know, but he didn't want to know because he couldn't bear it. _It can't be…_

Charlie was dead. His youngest son was dead. He didn't live anymore and he wouldn't come back to him. Alan wouldn't see him again and wouldn't be able to talk to him, never again. Charlie was dead.

Alan was sobbing so hard that he could hardly get any air. But he didn't care. Let him suffocate. His life had lost any meaning and any value. His youngest son had died and he was still alive – that was too cruel to endure.

He had failed, as a father. He hadn't been able to protect his son, his and Margaret's son. After her death, he had become his sole responsibility and he had failed. For the second time.

He hadn't been able to protect his wife either. He hadn't been able to save her from death, just like Charlie. But it wasn't the same thing. With Margaret, it was different. They'd been able to say good-bye to her. With her, they had known that she wouldn't come back. With Charlie, it was different.

Alan was sick. He felt miserable. He didn't want to go on. The tears continued to run down his cheeks, but he didn't want that anymore. He wanted them to stop, wanted the pain to stop, wanted everything to stop. He wanted to be with Charlie again…

Hands were laid on his upper arms and turned him gently around his own axis. The next instant, the two remaining Eppes-men were in each other's arms. They both needed this support, especially since it was the only one, at least in this moment.

Not only Alan, but also Don had tears streaming down his cheeks. It was this sight that made Alan realize that he couldn't give up. He wasn't alone. Donnie was still there with him. He couldn't let Donnie down. He had to fight. He had to overcome the pain. They would get through this somehow.

Anyhow.

Or not.

The grief was unbearable and Alan didn't know how much longer he would be able to live through it. It just wasn't fair… Charlie shouldn't have died, not so young, not now that everything was going so well in his life. He seemed to finally have come to grips with Margaret's death, got along well with Donnie, had a lucrative job he enjoyed and was living in a solid relationship with a wonderful woman.

"Amita needs to know."

Don stared at his father. The husky, trembling voice confounded him. Then the words found their way into his brain and some moments later he knew that his father was right. Amita had to know that her boyfriend wouldn't come back to her, and she shouldn't have to hear that through third parties.

Don inhaled shakily. "Alright. I'm gonna go over to her place."

Alan looked at him with an expression that made Don shudder. His father seemed so helpless, so hopeless, so lifeless. So inappropriately thankful for Don to have assumed the task. He didn't even manage to ask second questions, to make sure that Don wanted to do it – for fear his son could change his mind.

3-1-4-1-5-9-2-6-5-3-5-8-9-7-9-3-2-3-8-4-6

Few hours later, Don was stepping inside the complex that housed Amita's apartment. As soon as he had thought to have summoned the strength he needed, he had read the letter once more, again and again, and despite the difficulties the words had to get into his head, he by now knew it by heart. There couldn't be any doubt left. Charlie was dead, they would translate him to them over the next couple of days. Bring him home.

They hadn't released an exact date of death, probably so that nobody could investigate further into matters which could endanger national security. For Don, the date was secondary. Charlie was dead, everything else was negligible. However, he didn't miss the irony that those last numbers of his life, his date of death, that those numbers were denied a man who had lived all his life in the company of numbers and who had dedicated it to them.

So they would never know the exact date when a light of this world had extinguished. But by 'the beginning of October' the time frame had been set precisely enough to tell them that Charlie had probably already been dead when they had declared him missing. So for weeks, Don had tried to get his little brother back without knowing that Charlie would never again return to the world of the living.

Anger wanted to rise inside him. Anger at this institution, anger that they hadn't been telling them anything, anger that they still didn't want to release any further information. What had happened? How had things come so far?

But his anger didn't make it. It was simmering deep inside him, an engine that kept him going, but it couldn't reach the surface. It was suffocated by endless grief.

He shouldn't have let him go in the first place. He hadn't wanted to. When Charlie had confronted them with his decision two months ago – _two months_ , thought Don; to him it seemed more like two years –, Don had already had a queasy feeling in his stomach. Everything had happened so fast. Everything was so secret… He had tried to dissuade him. He had thought that Charlie had been rendered insecure in his decision; he must have had second thoughts himself. But apparently he had overcome them.

Already three days later, Charlie had left, early in the morning, without Don having seen anyone of this obscure agency and without him having been able to prevent it. Charlie had gone with them. And he hadn't come back.

For a few seconds, Don just stood in front of the door to Amita's apartment, trying to take a deep breath and collect himself. When he realized that it wouldn't get any better, he rang the bell. While he waited, it occurred to him how often Charlie might have stood here and waited, just like him. And that he wouldn't do it ever again.

The door opened and Don tried to come back. He couldn't form any words and also Amita didn't say anything. She just looked into his shadowed eyes – were they reddened? The dim light of the corridor didn't allow a close examination – while her own eyes widened. Don remained silent. She staggered backwards. She shook her head slightly.

"What… what happened?"

"Amita…" Don slowly came closer, but the young woman retreated further and further. As if she was afraid of him. Or of the truth he was bearing.

"I'm sorry."

Amita was still shaking her head slightly, but steadily, even though she could no longer retreat. The sidetable in the hallway was in her way.

"Amita… he's dead."

Still the shaking of the head. "No," she then whispered softly. "No." Her eyes filled with tears and when Don brought his arms around her, she fell apart. She was sobbing uncontrollably. She hardly managed to hold herself upright. Don, who also thought he'd lose the ground beneath his feet any minute now, led her to the couch in her living-room.

Amita wasn't the only one who shed tears.


	6. Time to Say Goodbye

**A/N:** Thank you so much for your reviews! If it's any consolation, you're not suffering alone. I actually cried translating this one. I know, way to bring up your hopes for things to get better. Though things _will_ get less depressing and slightly more action-oriented from chapter 8 onwards, so hang in there.  
One important thing: I mean no disrespect for Jewish traditions in any way. I tried to do the necessary research to write this chapter properly, but sadly, it probably wasn't enough. So if the scenes described in this chapter are woefully unrealistic, I apologize sincerely. I simply didn't know any better and I just hope it doesn't offend anyone. (Actually, just as I was proof-reading it occurred to me that the mirrors in Charlie's house should have been covered, right? Hum… can we just assume that the Eppes family isn't that religious?)  
And another **disclaimer** to be added to the one in chapter 1: there will be a prayer that is not my own work, but taken from the Tanakh (well, actually from the Authorized King James Version of the Bible – Psalm 91:2-6, if anyone's interested). I'm pretty sure that the other words the rabbi says have been taken from somewhere else as well, but I haven't been able to find the original source (remember, I wrote this fic a couple of years ago). If I remember correctly, it was a website containing information about Jewish faith and traditions. So, that's not mine either and I'm sorry about not being able to name my source, but since that one's a prayer as well, I hope nobody minds.

* * *

6\. Time to Say Goodbye

Don couldn't believe that he was actually doing this.

He was standing in front of the big mirror near the door in the Craftsman. Looking back at him, there was a pale-faced stranger with sun-glasses who had to be ten years older than himself. He eyed the stranger warily, that bitter line that was supposed to be the mouth, the black suit, the stiff posture. The effort to maintain composure. He noticed the stranger's torso tremble slightly when he took in a deep breath and let his lungs fill with air. An action which would be denied his little brother forever.

Behind the sun-glasses, Don closed his eyes and turned away from the mirror.

He wandered through the living-room aimlessly. Everything here was so different… He had seldom had to wait in this house, at least during the past few years. And even if he'd had to wait, there had always been something to be done in the meanwhile.

Not now. There was nothing to be done. There was no distraction. Nothing in this world could have pulled his attention away from his black thoughts towards something else, something happier. Nothing.

The last two days had passed them by in a whirl of grief. The institution still hadn't made itself known and would probably never do, but at least it had organized and also paid for the funeral. As if that could make anything better. Alan and Don probably could have objected to their plans, but they hadn't even tried. For one, they were still so downcast by the horrible truth, and two, they couldn't imagine Charlie wanting his funeral in any other way than the agency had arranged.

No, not in any other way. Just later.

Don was looking at the old wooden table that was being gently lit by the afternoon sun on this late autumn day. Childhood memories rose inside him. How he and Charlie had played tag around this table, way back. How he was doing his homework while Charlie was doodling. How he was doing his homework while Charlie was calculating. How he peered over to Charlie jealously while his brother was lost in his numbers. How, later, they had sat together at this table, eating and talking, with Margaret, without Margaret. He could still see Charlie sitting here, animated in discussion, and staying at the table almost became insufferable. He could still sense Charlie's presence, and it made him feel inexpressibly lonely. He could still hear Charlie laugh, and it made him cry.

"Are you ready?"

Don gave a start. His head jerked to his left, where a heavy hand was lying on his shoulder. With his eyes he followed the arm upwards and recognized, even through the sun-glasses, the reddened, but dry eyes of his father.

He nodded as a response. He didn't think he'd be able to talk now. He slowly forced himself to get up from the table and left the house behind Alan. While they were walking to the car, Don looked back at the Craftsman, one last time. It seemed to him as if they had forgotten something, as if they were losing this something forever to the past at this moment of parting.

* * *

They didn't speak a single word until they reached the synagogue. They weren't the first to arrive; the room was already well filled. But of course their seats were still vacant.

Pitiful looks were resting on them, unnoticed, while they went up front towards the Torah ark. Also Amita and Larry were already there. The four of them embraced tightly.

Don looked Amita in the face. He had no doubt that it wouldn't take much to unleash her tears. Larry, too, appeared pale, unhealthy. He looked a bit like he was sick. Don could empathize with that.

They sat down and waited for the beginning of the ceremony. They didn't feel anything around them; their thoughts were empty; their hearts were black and heavy with grief. They didn't feel anything around them, they just felt the pain inside them, a pain that surmounted everything manageable.

The rabbi entered the room and the ending began. First, a short prayer was said, then there were the eulogies from friends and colleagues. What a remarkable man Charlie had been… what he had contributed to the world… what he had accomplished… what a loss his death meant for CalSci, for his family, for his friends and for the whole world…

Tears were streaming down Don's face. Why didn't anybody _do_ something? It couldn't be that Charlie was really dead, that he would never come back, he had to… somehow…

Almost imperceptibly, Don sobbed, the rocking of his shoulders the only indication. He wanted his brother back. He shouldn't be gone, Don wanted to see him again, see him laugh, he wanted to lock Charlie in his arms.

His gaze flew towards the urn. His brother was in there. That's what it contained. Ashes. Everything that remained of him. Dust.

Don sobbed again. He was sick.

* * *

Eventually, the ceremony was over and dark figures rose heavily from their seats. Don put the sun-glasses back in front of his eyes which were still emanating lacrimal fluid.

They set out for the grave, a small distance from the urn bearers. Still, the words of the Chevra kadisha, the burial society, could be heard all to well, "…my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust. Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence. He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler. Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day, nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday…"

The words sounded like cynicism in Don's ears. _He shall cover thee with his feathers…_ So why was Charlie dead? Why had his brother had to die? Where had this God been, if there was one; why hadn't he protected him? Why had this young live had to extinct, on its heyday, without ever having known the soft evening breeze of late summer, the silence of winter? Why had Charlie been ripped out of his life, violently, before the time had come?

It was so unfair, it couldn't be, everything was so wrong…

For the hundredth time, Don wished so fervently that he could change things that the desire almost tore him up from inside. He didn't want this to be happening, there had to be an error somewhere…

Charlie would have surely found the error. He was trained in logic. He would have noticed what was wrong, what couldn't be, he may have been able to prevent that for Don today the world was ending.

But Charlie wasn't there. And that was the error.

* * *

The procession had reached the small grave and the urn was solemnly lowered down. Not only because of Amita's sobbing behind him Don had difficulty understanding the rabbi's words who chose this moment to end the ceremony. "…May the merciful God cover his soul with his feathers forever and bind it to the eternal life as his heritage and may he rest in peace. To that let us say: amen."

"Amen," came the two sillables that almost sounded like one huskily from Don's throat that was swollen almost completely shut. _Cover his soul with his feathers... Why only now if you haven't considered it necessary until now?_

Still overwhelmed by his fury, Don grabbed the shovel and threw earth on the urn. _Here's what you want. Dust to dust. You're happy now?_

As soon as the earth hit the urn, Don felt a stab in his heart. He sensed that it was no God who suffered his fury, but Charlie, his own dead little brother, and not least himself. The hand around the shovel cramped up.

 _I want you back, Chuckie…_

Don swallowed and took another shovel full of sand. This time, however, he let the dust trickle delicately down onto his little brother, softly, as if to carress him.

"Take care, Charlie," he whispered tearfully and without being heard before he turned away from him.

* * *

Megan, David and Colby came. Don knew that they were here, he'd known at least since Colby had delivered a eulogy. They offered their condolences without words. They understood that at this moment, there were no words that could have given solace. They understood, because they too felt the loss. Megan was crying. Also David and Colby were more solemn than Don had ever seen them.

After the whole funeral cortege had taken leave and offered them their condolences, Don felt that now time had come for them to say good-bye as well. Only his father, Amita and himself were left. He heard Amita sobbing, saw the tear-streaked face of his father and finally felt that also he himself was crying unrestrained.

He didn't know what to do now. He knew he had to say good-bye, but he didn't know how. Deep down inside him, he was obviously still hoping to be able to prevent everything as long as he didn't bade his little brother farewell.

His blurry thoughts became a little clearer when he noticed movement beside him. The next instant, he saw his father on his knees. Alan was kneeling at the rim of his youngest son's grave.

The next thing Don remembered was his hand on his father's shoulder. He was squeezing it firmly. He didn't know how long they were standing this way. Time wasn't relevant. This was the last moment with Charlie, and despite the hardly bearable pain he would have wished that this moment never passed.


	7. Dust

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1 **  
A/N:** Thanks to Mega07ghost... and sorry again :)  
There's a slight spoiler for 2-20 Guns 'n' Roses and a reference to 1-06 Sabotage.

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7\. Dust

During the following days, Don worked like a machine. He spoke little and seldom and only if he couldn't help it. He did everything that had to be done, but remained cold and detached throughout. When one day CalSci's administration called to inform the family that Charlie's office had to be cleared out, Alan didn't have to beg for long. In fact, he didn't even have to ask him for Don knew that he wouldn't do that to his father. You could tell that right now, it wouldn't take much to break Alan for good.

When Don approached the university's main entrance, Amita and Larry were already waiting outside. They were standing still and unmoving, like two stony figurines, part of the frontage. The welcoming was silent, but heartfelt. After all, they all had to take whatever consolation they could get.

Don pulled out the key to Charlie's office. They hadn't had to search for it for long; Charlie had hung it at the keyboard before his departure. Don unlocked the door and for a moment, they stood in front of Charlie's office as if they were set in stone, paralyzed by the sight that greeted them.

There was chaos. The desk was full of papers that were sprawled everywhere without an apparent system, there were piles of books, papers and other stuff in, on and around the shelves.

Everything looked the way it always did.

Hadn't it been for the thin layer of dust covering everything, they might have thought that Charlie had just now left his office, maybe to go fetch some coffee or to give a lecture or to present some findings over at the FBI.

Yes… if it hadn't been for the layer of dust… the layer of dust and the urn on the cemetery.

With an immense amount of willpower, Don stepped into the office first, followed closely by a slightly hesitant Larry and a not less intimidated Amita. For some seconds, they just stood in the middle of the room without knowing what to do. It was so difficult… _Everything_ in here reminded them of Charlie. As if he wasn't present enough in their thoughts, but _this_ … Charlie was so close to each of them in this office, in every sheet of paper, in every chalky line on the blackboard, that they could positively sense his spirit. At the same time they were painfully aware that he would never come back to them.

The three of them were breathing heavily and were drawn to three different relics of Charlie.

The first thing Don spotted was the case file on the desk for it was one of the few things in the room he understood. It was a copy of the file to a case Don had worked on shortly before Charlie's departure. To Don it had often seemed as though his cases were the only connection to his brother and the only reason to be together with him. He had overlooked for much too long that they were brothers and didn't need any pretext to see each other, but then it had been too late.

The rationally thinking part of Don, the part that had always enabled him to understand Charlie's explanation for his cases, knew that his brother, having the abilities he had, would probably have worked on secret projects for law enforcement agencies and other institutions all the same. But a different part of him was possessed with fear that with his decision to let Charlie work as a consultant for the FBI, he might have indirectly brought about his younger brother's death. It was probably that part that was responsible for Don having severe difficulty breathing at the sight of the file and for the fist-sized lumps that were lying both in his throat and in his stomach.

Larry turned his attention towards the tesseract, the simplified model of a four-dimensional hypercube He knew this model of Charlie's since he'd known Charles himself. To him, it had always been a symbol for the fact that there were still so many things in this world that you couldn't explain, couldn't even fathom. Also Charlie, his former protégé, had been one of the world's wonders. Now the world had lost this wonder.

It was time. In many instances, it was regarded as the fourth dimension, the one dimension which the cube model couldn't really show. It was time he didn't understand. Why had there been so little time available for Charlie and his brilliant mind? And how was the world supposed to cope without him as time went on? And how was time supposed to actually heal those wounds that made it difficulty for Larry to breathe?

Amita had approached the blackboard. Her gaze was too blurry to determine what was written on it, but individually, apart from each other, those symbols could magically find their way into her mind. Charlie had written those symbols. She recognized his writing, the verve that showed in them, and she could imagine with painful accuracy how he might have stood here writing, every now and then turning back towards the papers or the laptop on the desk, how he glanced towards the door when she or someone else entered… It seemed to her as if everything were back the way things had been before, she was sitting here with him while he was filling the simple blackboard with groundbreaking thoughts. But there would be no more thought nor letter nor symbol coming from Charlie.

Her fingers stroke gently across the green blackboard. Even in those places where Charlie hadn't written anything, thin remnants of chalk had survived the wiping out, former thoughts. She was careful; she didn't want to smear Charlie's writing; she wanted to leave everything as though Charlie had just left his office. She didn't want to wipe out any memory of him. In this moment, it seemed to her as if this was everything that remained of him – dust.

Dust and the painful memories.

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Don tried to come to terms with things in his own way. He resumed his life and pretended to intend to go back to normalcy. He assumed tasks like clearing out Charlie's office in order to have something to do, always filled with the faint hope that something might distract him from Charlie's death. That Charlie's office was just overflowing with memories that didn't even entertain the possibility to distract him was something he'd painfully realized only then.

Neither was his job really fit for his endeavor. He'd gone back to work no later than the day after the funeral and already that very same day, he'd stumbled across a case where he could have used Charlie's help. Don had swallowed thickly and shoved the file towards the rear of his desk with trembling hands. Charlie, however, had remained omnipresent in his thoughts.

The fourth day, on a Friday afternoon, he'd collapsed. Luckily, it hadn't happened in the field, but during a conference in the FBI building. In the hospital, they'd said it was because of Don's way of living, that the lack of both sleep and nourishment was taking its toll. They didn't consider the diagnosis of a broken heart and a shattered soul.

He had neither felt like nor thought to have the strength for lengthy discussions and had followed his doctor's instructions. He had taken a few days of leave – after all, there was nobody in the office who would have taken offense at him for doing so – and had stayed at the Craftsman with his father. At Charlie's house.

At first, he had wanted to run away screaming. _Everything_ in here reminded him of his dead little brother. But as time went on, he noticed that his senses were becoming numb. He became increasingly impervious for feelings, albeit he always seemed to be feeling the pain.

Of course he'd been thinking about ending it all, fast and almost painlessly. The agony would be over and he'd be with Charlie again. There were moments when he just couldn't seem to see any other way out, when he just couldn't bear the pain any longer. What kept him alive in these moments were his father and Robin and Charlie himself.

He remembered it distinctly. When his former colleague Nikki Davis had apparently committed suicide, Charlie had established a suicide-risk-analysis also for him; his father had told him about it. And Charlie had found out that Don's risk to commit suicide was lowered by the fact that he had a family, that his father and Charlie were always there when he needed them.

But Charlie wasn't there anymore.

Not in the flesh. But his spirit was still watching over him. A warm and unbelievingly slight smile played around his lips when he thought that Charlie's analysis was still preventing him from doing something to himself even after Charlie's death. Charlie himself wasn't there anymore in order to pull him out of his ocean of desperation, it was true, but he had presented Don with the proof that he couldn't go under. And by doing so, he was still his lifeline.

Anyway, it wasn't like Don had thought in detail about suicide. It was more that after Charlie's death, he'd been fearing and feeling that he'd be in for it. Even before Charlie's death, Don every now and then had been afraid that the job and all those images it brought with it could sooner or later push him over the edge and into an abyss of depression so deep that he'd be ready to take his own life. Not least that analysis had contributed to calming him down some. But when Charlie, one of those reasons his life was worth living for, had left them forever, he'd initially thought everything would be over now.

He'd put this phase behind him, though. He would fight. He wouldn't mope any longer and he certainly wouldn't let all those people down who loved Charlie as well by letting them suffer even more. He was familiar with that kind of suffering and he wouldn't knowingly increase those of the others.

And beside that, he'd do it for Charlie.

 _For Charlie._

Don couldn't really explain the thought, but he thought it was important to go on living so he wouldn't disappoint his little brother. Yes, he believed that Charlie wouldn't have wanted Don to mope like that.

Somehow, it was strange. All those years, they hadn't been able to get each other and now, when they couldn't even talk to one another anymore, there seemed to be such a strong understanding between them that Don really thought he could feel it in the air around him, that he thought that Charlie was still, in some magically transcendent way, among them.

But of course it couldn't elude him that his brother was gone. For even though he sometimes thought he could feel his presence, Charlie was still so unbearingly far away that the longing was about to eat Don up from inside. In those moments, he tried to be as close to his brother as he could get. He sat at the koi pond or strolled through his house or went to the garage breathing in the chalk dust…

Or he went to the cemetery.

He knew that Amita and Alan also came here daily. Even if he hadn't known, he couldn't have missed the small blue flowers that lay under one of the stones on Charlie's grave, each day replaced by fresh ones. Neither was it hard to figure out whom these flowers were coming from, especially considering that Charlie had given her also one of those plantlets before his departure for death. Amita couldn't have chosen anything more fitting than forget-me-not, although as an appeal it was unnecessary. Nobody among them would ever forget Charlie.

Don had also noticed that every other day, there was a fresh red rose lying on the dark soil. Charlie had never been a big fan of flowers and they didn't really go together well with Jewish traditions regarding care of graves, but Don was sure his brother would have liked this sort of caring. And he was sure that roses had something to do with math, just like other flowers. Don remembered very distinctly the night when Charlie had told Terry and David about the Golden Ratio and where it could be found in nature. Math was also in marguerites, he'd told them, and had shown them with the aid of one of the little flowers that especially since Margaret's death were often to be found at the house. But was there math in roses as well? Don had never asked.

With a tired movement of his hand, he put his sunglasses into the chest pocket of his jacket. It was slowly getting dark and the cemetery wouldn't remain open for long. As if Don cared.

In the beginning, he used to come here in the morning, before work. But he'd found out soon enough that after that, he'd been unable to concentrate on anything else but on Charlie. At first that hadn't really surprised him. Only when, after his collapse, he'd been forced to postpone his visit into the evening, he'd realized that it was a little easier this way. When he planned to come here in the evening, he always had a reason to get through the day. It was also easier to talk to Charlie when he had something to tell him. In any case, Don had the gnawing suspicion that he was talking longer and more frequent with his brother after his death than before. As if he was trying to catch up on all the time he'd lost even though he knew it was impossible.

No, he'd have to become reconciled with the facts. Everything that remained of Charlie were the agonizingly vivid memories and the soullessly dead dust.


	8. Life Goes on

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1.

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8\. Life Goes on

About one month after Charlie's funeral, they all managed to get back to some kind of everyday life, at least on the outside. Maybe it was that the setting-up of the gravestone had helped them to understand Charlie's death as something definite even though it was still so difficult to accept the truth. And of course, everyday life was different than before. Now, it wasn't Charlie that Alan shared his breakfast with in the morning, but Don. By now Don had officially abandoned his apartment and spent the days and nights either in Charlie's former home or with Robin without knowing where he belonged. Amita showed up less often at the house and spent the evenings and nights alone in her apartment. Larry didn't know whom to talk to anymore, be it in order to seek help or to offer it. And the team always lost the proverbial train of thoughts on their cases every time they passed one of the conference rooms in which Charlie had so often been so much alive.

Around the same time, the still anonymous institution finally sent them Charlie's personal belongings. For two days, the package sat next to the front door as if they'd forgotten about it, but of course they hadn't forgotten, how could they. It was pending above their heads like the sword of Damocles, full of thoughts and vivid memories of Charlie.

They had asked Larry and Amita to come over so that they could sort through his things together. The two of them would surely be of great help, not only in order to determine whether something might belong to CalSci or to one of them, but also in order to give each other emotional support.

They opened the box and were immediately confronted with those memory-bearing items. For some seconds, they stood rigidly before taking out Charlie's belongings and, in favor of a better overview, spread them across the table.

Nobody dared to start. It was finally Don who pulled himself together and opened Charlie's wallet hoping that they might have left his ID with his picture inside. They had.

Now the others, with mixed feelings, started to take up various objects as well. More in an attempt to occupy himself than anything else, Larry carefully took one of the books and browsed through it until a short stem of a plant with multiple small blue blossoms flew out. While they were still gliding towards the floor with the men observing its trajectory as if they were in a trance, Amita managed to figure out how they had gotten there. She remembered as if it had been yesterday how Charlie had given her the small plantlet at his departure. At first she hadn't understood, had just had a hunch that he had confirmed at once: "That's forget-me-not." He had reddened a bit, that kind of charming, sheepish reddishness that she loved so much. "Take it literally." She could still smell the plantlet's perfume and could almost feel the velvety leaves underneath her fingers when she had carefully pulled off a small part of the plantlet and put it gently in the chest pocket of Charlie's shirt. "Likewise," she had whispered, and the smile that was playing around her lips now was only a shade sadder than the one with which she had said good-bye to him. Forever.

Eventually, Amita's eyes fell on the necklace. It was basically just a leather cord with a small cylindrical pendant which tapered off at one end.

Amita extended a shaking hand which, as soon as her fingers touched the leather strap, clasped the talisman firmly. She rubbed the wooden pendant reminiscing about the day when she had given the jewel to Charlie, that day two days before Charlie's departure, that day when she had had one of the last conversations with the man she loved.

" _Happy birthday, Charlie!"_

 _Charlie, standing in front of the blackboard in his office, turned around towards her and returned her embrace with a big smile on his face. When they finally released each other, Amita conjured up a little box._

" _What's that?" Charlie asked, his ever-present smile on his lips._

" _Open it," Amita beamed, and Charlie curiously followed her advice. He fiddled around with the gift ribbon until he could finally pull the lid from the box. His eyes fell onto the miniature obelisk that was lying, attached to a leather strap, on the cotton wool in the box._

" _It's nice," Charlie said, still in his exuberant mood, though now a bit confused, and he looked into her eyes expectantly. "What is it?"_

" _That's an Indian talisman." Smiling, Amita reached into the box and fuddled with the pendant until her nimble fingers had managed to screw off the upper end so she could pull out a tiny piece of foil, hardly bigger than an inch by an inch, which she unrolled and held out to Charlie._

 _His eyes grew wider when he realized what he was holding in his hands. "That's…" He was checking his theory once more, Amita could read it in the movement of his eyes. Across the columns… down the lines… the diagonals… and the broken diagonals that all amounted to the same sum. "That's a pandiagonal magic square!"_

 _Amita beamed. She had been almost certain that Charlie would recognize it that fast. "You're right. Magic squares originate in India and supposedly bring good luck." She hesitated briefly. "The pendant's supposed to protect you when you go away on that secret mission of yours."_

 _Uttering that last sentence, her smile, for the first time, seemed a bit forced, but Charlie immediately calmed her. "I'm certain that it will."_

 _They both knew that they didn't believe in the protecting force of some numbers in a pendant on a leather strap; that was nonsense. But that didn't diminish the value that gift had as a gesture. Besides, it would give Charlie some strength nonetheless, just because it made him remember that there were people at home thinking of him._

 _With an intimate kiss and a firm embrace that was meant to express all those things left unsaid, he thanked her. She snuggled up closely to him. She would never forget that touch, would feel his lips on hers forever, would forever feel his hands that gently caressed her back…_

Amita sobbed. It was so unfair, so unreal. Why hadn't the talisman been able to protect Charlie?

Her sobbing grew more vehement without the warm hand on her back being able to console her. Of course no talisman of this world could have protected him. The whole idea was insane. She should have given him something on his way that really mattered, something really useful, maybe then it would have worked, maybe Charlie would have survived if she hadn't given him that futile thing to take with him on his troublesome journey. Maybe then, he'd be with her now.

With trembling fingers, she somehow managed to open the pendant, intending to take out the piece of foil. But she couldn't. It wasn't there anymore.

Amita frowned while there were still tears streaming down her face. Why wasn't the piece of foil there anymore? Had Charlie lost it? And why would he have taken it out in the first place? Or had they taken it out afterwards? And if so, who? And why?

There were so many questions… so many questions and she would never know the answer.

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Some answers at least were given to them in the letter that had arrived with the personal belongings. Just like the first letter it was addressed to Alan and came directly from the government, so it was still possible for almost every law enforcement agency to be behind all this.

They hadn't told them much, but it had been enough to placate Don's urge to get justice for his brother. 'They' – whoever that might be – told them they regretted the event and the grief it had caused the loved ones to the utmost. Therefore they were very sorry not to be able to tell the family more about the circumstances leading up to it; however, national security demanded the highest form of discretion and they were asking for their understanding. They could merely tell them that Charlie had been stationed in a conflict area, technically away from all the action and technically well protected and technically not endangered. On the day in question, however, a group of extremists had launched an attack at the headquarters, a location which had technically been kept a secret. Charlie had burned to death in the fire that had ensued the explosion, his body had been found and identified beyond a doubt, which was why the persons responsible for the mission had taken the liberty to cremate the unsightly body. The terrorists that had launched the attack had already been found and handed over to the local judiciary; their names, however, couldn't be released. Alan and Don could be certain, though, that the death of their son and brother had been lawfully avenged.

Don had thought he would feel better as soon as he knew that whoever was responsible was punished, but it instigated in him neither a feeling of triumph nor of satisfaction. Maybe it was because he still didn't have any details about why Charlie had had to die. Maybe, however, it was because it still didn't change anything about the fact that Charlie was dead.

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Don waited for it to hurt less. It didn't, though. He knew that the pain would never go away completely, but they said that with time it grew less, right? And that was the way it had been with his mother during the weeks and months after her death. But not here. Whenever Don thought about Charlie – and that was pretty much always –, he could hardly breathe. There was a pressure on his chest and his throat that just wouldn't go away.

Days, weeks and months had passed by. By now, half a year had elapsed. Still Don couldn't deal with the situation. He wasn't the only one who had difficulties. Also his father, Amita and Larry still seemed too worn out for being able to turn back to their normal lives not only on the outside, but also on the inside.

Only the team seemed to have recovered. Not just that. They expected Don to get over his brother's death just as easily, that he just forgot about Charlie and went on living his life as though nothing had happened. They didn't say it, but Don could feel those looks on him that said things like 'Come on, Don' and 'Don't take it so hard' and 'Get back to living your life'. But he couldn't. His brother's death made it impossible for him to get back to his life because without his brother, that life didn't exist anymore.

"Don? We found the sister."

Don looked up and slowly came back from his dark thoughts. He was in his office and had just been attempting to concentrate on their case. A murder between two competing drug gangs. A guy who had killed his brother. Don didn't understand him.

"Yeah…" His voice was almost gone and he had to clear it. "Alright, Colby. You… you can go pick her up."

Colby looked at his boss with pity. Don had changed during the past half year. He had become even quieter, almost depressive. He got distracted more easily, wasn't as determined as before and his commands were given without real conviction or certainty. Of course, Colby, David and Megan hadn't expected Don to just get over Charlie's death. But by now…

Colby screwed up his courage. It had to stop sooner or later. "Don… We all miss Charlie. But the way you're… That's just not normal anymore, man. I know it sounds hard, but life goes on."

Don gave him a look which Colby couldn't really describe, but which managed nonetheless to raise his hackles. The first words of Don's response were uttered in a cool and controlled manner, but the end was lost in a swollen throat. "No, it doesn't. At least not for Charlie."

Don was glad when Colby, with a flaming red face, escaped towards his witness interview. At least this way, nobody could see the moisture in his eyes.

He sank back into his chair, trying to concentrate on the case, and only became aware of his surroundings again when his cell rang. Slowly, with tired movements, he pulled it out of his pocket. Unknown number. Don sighed heavily and answered the call. "Eppes."

"Good morning, Sir. This is the Alexis of Edessa Clinic. We'd like to ask you some questions."

Don frowned. He'd never heard of that clinic. Was that some kind of stupid phone prank? Or some kind of advertisement? In any way, it was nothing that could change something about the poor state his mood had been in for the past half year.

"I don't know that clinic," he therefore answered rather harshly. "What do you want?"

The nurse or whatever she was wasn't deterred. "Do you now someone male, Caucasian, about thirty, dark, curly hair, dark eyes, about 5'7''?"

For a moment, Don was tempted to say 'No, but I knew him', but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead, he just said. "Yes. Why?"

"Who is it?"

Anger rose inside Don. What did this woman want? What was all this supposed to mean? "Charlie Eppes. He was my brother." The answer was gruff. The anger was an effective way of keeping the grief at bay. Or at least it was effective most of the time.

When Don heard the words that came out of his mouth, he closed his eyes briefly, feeling despite himself a tear in the corner of his eye. He swallowed quickly before he snapped at the woman: "Why are you asking me that?"

"He _was_ your brother?" the woman pressed. Either she was deaf for any kind of questions or she was trying to infuriate Don. If she was endeavoring to do the latter, she had just entered the home stretch.

Don forced himself to breathe deeply. For a moment he wondered why he hadn't sent her to hell and finished the call yet. But this woman was talking to him about Charlie… It hurt, sure. But Don didn't want them to stop.

With his voice a bit calmer, he continued: "He was a mathematician and had been working on a secret project for a special institution. In the process he sustained injuries so severe that he died."

There was some seconds of silence on the other end of the line, which gave Don enough time to blink a few times. Too bad it didn't help much. With growing impatience, he wiped the moistness from his face.

"When was that?"

"Half a year ago. What is this all about?"

If that woman hadn't irritated him as much, he could have given her more detailed information. The announcement of Charlie's death: five months and five days ago. Charlie's disappearance: six months and five days ago. Charlie's last phone call: six months, five days and sixteen hours ago. His last words: 'See you.'

Don's throat constricted even tighter and he bit his lip. Still, the sob managed to escape from his gut.

"Why do you want to know all that?" Don repeated his question louder and more upset than before. Couldn't they all just leave him alone, couldn't they just stop asking him questions about Charlie's death, couldn't they just stop reminding him of those horrid moments…

"The whole thing is a bit… strange," the good woman now finally started to get to the point. "We have a patient here in our clinic who has lost his memory and who fits your brother's description. Last night, he dreamed of a string of numbers which turned out to be this phone number. I dare say, thinking that one would dream of numbers and on top of that memorize them while dreaming, well, I haven't seen something like _that_ before. Anyway, it all suggests the assumption that this patient and your brother are identical, Mr. – what was your name again?"

Don had listened to the voice, deaf, unbelieving, overwhelmed. What – what had she said? She had been talking about Charlie… _what_ had she said? She had a patient in that clinic, one that looked like Charlie, who dreamed of numbers, who…

"Hello? Sir?"

"That's not possible."

Don shuddered when his mind registered the coldness and unworldliness of his own words. But it wasn't possible, Charlie was dead, he was dead, dead…

"I can fax you the picture from his clinical file. Do you have a fax machine? What's the number?"

Automatically Don's gaze wandered towards the numbers on the machine. Numbers. Without really knowing what he was doing, he read them to her. His voice was hoarse, his mouth and throat suddenly dry as dust.

"Alright. I'm going to send you the fax then. Please notify us as soon as you're positive about whether you know the man or not. The number will be delivered with the fax. Goodbye!"

Don stared at his cell. He had still difficulties understanding what that woman had just said. Or rather understanding where the error was. For it was obvious that it couldn't be. Charlie was dead, he was dead, dead…

An electronic rattle pulled him out of his shock-like state and he slowly raised his eyes to look at the fax machine. The piece of paper rolled up and fell to the ground. With trembling hands Don picked it up and un-rolled it.

Big, expressive eyes looked up to Don from the picture and immediately put him under their spell. Even on the black-and-white copy they seemed to have maintained their warming brown color. Don knew those eyes. They had a painful similarity with those eyes that were forever closed to the wonders of this world.

While Don was staring into those eyes, they started moving. They were jiggling. The whole face made uneven, jolting movements, just like the hand that was holding the piece of paper, just like Don's whole body whose diaphragm was contracting painfully.

"What's that?"

Don's head whirled around when the voice's owner at the same time she uttered the words put a hand on his shoulder.

"Oh," Megan said when she realized what Don had been staring at, and pulled herself a bit backwards. She hesitated. "What kind of picture is that?"

Don stared with widened eyes – _and with reddened ones_ , as Megan observed – for a long time first at his colleague and then at the piece of paper in his hands. Without taking his eyes off that face, he asked her: "Who is it?"

Megan was confused, more than that, she was worried. Don really hadn't been well lately, and seriously: who was going to blame him for that? "Well, Charlie of course, who else?"

She saw Don swallow before that frangible voice sounded anew: "Really?"

"Of course. What's going on, Don? What –?"

But she didn't finish her question. She was much too occupied with following the movement of Don's hands which made their trembling and unsteady way towards the phone. One hand took up the receiver and grasped it firmly while the other tried to punch in the numbers from the fax. It didn't manage; it was too fidgety, too upset.

The hand was gently pushed aside by another one, a smaller one, and that female hand seemed to both have realized what the trembling one had been trying to do and be able to perform the action itself.

"What number is that? Who are you calling?" Megan wanted to know, but Don couldn't hear her.

His attention was focused on the ringtone that was now sounding from the phone and that shortly afterwards made way to the female voice. "Alexis of Edessa Clinic, how may I help you?"

"Eppes… You just called me. It was about Charlie. You sent me his picture."

"Have you recognized the person?"

"Yes." Don's voice was trembling as much as his hands and his whole body. "Yes… it… That's my brother."


	9. Renascence

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1. Oh, and I'm sort-of quoting "Star Wars" in this one :)  
 **A/N:** Thanks for your reviews and alerts, they make me so happy! And yeah, maybe I should have mentioned that I have a soft spot for cliff-hangers ;)

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9\. Renascence

Don opened the front door of Charlie's house. He slowly stepped inside and took off his jacket with forced calmness.

"Don?" His father stepped out of the kitchen. He seemed a little surprised, but Don wasn't sure. Since Charlie's disappearance, his father's emotions were always more difficult to interpret than before. Every feeling was shadowed by a dark cloud that couldn't be dissipated. Maybe Don was just imagining the surprise, just because it had to be there, because it was logical, because Don shouldn't be back by now. The grief, however, he didn't imagine.

How would he react?

"Hey, Dad."

"What happened?"

Don should have known that he couldn't hide anything from his father. Don's working hours had never been regular, but he usually came home later rather than earlier. Unless, of course, something had happened.

"We need to talk."

Don saw his father getting a shade paler and immediately regretted his words. He hadn't wanted to give him a fright. Neither did he want to keep him in suspense. He just didn't know how to deliver the news.

But it was good news! And even though Don was more used to deliver announcements of death than he was in delivering the contrary, it still amazed him why he was having such a hard time doing this.

Maybe because this wasn't just any complete stranger, but his father.

Maybe because he'd been believing for half a year that Charlie was dead.

* * *

Alan and his eldest son sat down at the dining room table.

"I received a call today," Don started. He didn't know how to continue; the words had come out of his mouth just like this, without a plan. Maybe he should have thought ahead about how to tell him. That, however, would have required some at least slightly organized thoughts.

His father looked at him – yes, how? Interested, questioningly, attentively? No. No, a phone call in Don's office didn't have any priority for his father. Empty. Empty was the right expression. Right and yet so wrong.

Don continued, still not knowing how on earth he was going to say it. "It was a clinic somewhere in Nebraska. A private long-term institution for people with certain types of mental disorders founded by some catholic businessman… whatever." Don had informed himself of the clinic; he hadn't wanted to do this to his father without having enough evidence. But everything he'd found out seemed so incredibly trivial compared to what he intended to say. He swallowed. "Anyway, they sent me a picture. Of Charlie."

Don pulled the carefully folded copy out of the inner pocket of his jacket and showed it to his father. Since he already knew every detail of the photo, he paid more attention to his father and thus he couldn't miss the fresh tears that ran down the older man's cheeks. He watched the corners of his father's mouth twitch slightly as if they were about to smile, and he supposed that his father was looking at Charlie's mouth, that mouth that had some similarity with his own gesture, one corner lifted slightly, almost imperceptibly upwards, as though he wasn't sure whether he should or could or wanted to smile. But as imperceptible as the gesture was on the photo, just as quickly it disappeared from Alan's face, no smile anymore, not the faintest glint of happiness, and Don knew that his father's eyes were now staring into the eyes of his youngest son. Charlie's eyes on the photo weren't meant to evoke a smile. They had lost far too much of their intensity; their gaze was almost dull. However, more than anything else that gaze bespoke an infinitely deep sadness.

"What kind of picture is that?" Alan asked in an uncertain voice.

"The clinic says that it's the picture from the file of one of their patients."

Alan looked up briefly, the silent question written in his almost hopeful face, before his eyes wandered back to the photo.

"That means," Don continued, his voice choked as well, and tried to choose his words with care, "that they've got a patient who looks exactly like Charlie."

Alan raised his head again. Don saw tears glint in his father's eyes and didn't know how to deal with that until he noticed that in his eyes as well, there were swimming tears. Only now, when he had told his father, he began not only to understand the words, but also to feel them: Charlie… there was a chance that Charlie was still alive!

But how? They had received the announcement of his death, they had buried him, they had lived for half a year under the impression that Charlie was dead. And until now, he hadn't come back, he'd remained dead.

No, no, no, it was all too much. It couldn't be true and yet it seemed that way. Their hope had been reborn. Still, they couldn't let that happen. For if their hope was to be shattered, there was a high risk that their hearts would be shattered as well.

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Don felt like a prisoner. His thoughts were revolving around Charlie, permanently voicing that one question _How can it be?_ , and wouldn't let go of him. He tried to escape, to calm down, but he was nervous and antsy and could hardly stand this period of waiting.

The plane increased his feeling of imprisonment. He was wishing so fervently that it would go faster, that it would bring him to the answers sooner, but of course his sheer will couldn't influence the laws of physics. The plane was fast – but it would never become faster or fast enough for Don and his father.

In the end, they were lucky to be here in the first place. Two other passengers had cancelled their tickets and thus they had been able to get those seats on such short notice so that they could fly to Nebraska already the day after the call from the clinic. They'd had to be at the airport in the early hours of the morning and that had given them an excuse not even to try to get some sleep. They were so tense that they couldn't even lie still.

The clinic had suggested to them to come here if they could arrange that in order to certify with their own eyes whether the patient really was their family member. Don would have liked to talk to Charlie – or whoever it was –, but the nurse hadn't considered that reasonable. Their patient shouldn't suddenly have to hear a voice that was distorted by the phone and yet possibly somehow familiar without being able to associate a face with that person. As a patient suffering from amnesia, he'd had to endure enough confusion in the past weeks and months. Don had had to swallow and acquiesce in having to wait before he would gain certitude.

 _But it_ _is_ _certain_ , a desperate voice in Don's head was saying. _Charlie is dead, you buried him, you got the letter. He's dead!_ But if so, then who was the man with that painfully similar appearance to Charlie? The man who'd dreamed of his _phone number_ , for G-d's sake? Maybe it _was_ him after all? Maybe there'd just been a mistake when they'd announced his death? Also the amnesia would fit perfectly into that picture… _Please, please let it be Charlie, please, please…_

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The plane landed smoothly and half an hour later, Alan and Don stopped a taxi outside the airport. The driver regarded them with raised eye-brows when they told him the address – the clinic was situated well outside the city, almost two hours by car. But they weren't deterred and when they assured him they had enough money for the ride, the taxi driver shrugged and set the car moving.

The drive was seemingly endless. There wasn't much to be seen from the country road, but there wasn't anything that could have diverted their attention away from Charlie anyway. Maybe, maybe they'd soon see him again…

The clinic was situated four or five miles outside a small town, in the middle of the countryside, or, as it seemed to Don, in the middle of nowhere. It might be beautiful out here, but the clinic was cut off to an incredible extent from the rest of the world.

They paid the driver, also for the way back. They felt like traitors when they asked him to wait for an hour before going back. But if the stranger in this clinic turned out not to be Charlie, they didn't want to stay any longer than absolutely necessary.

They went towards the front desk in the small lobby of the private clinic and introduced themselves. They had some difficulty stating their matter. _We're here to take Charlie with us?_ And what if the nurse said that there was no Charlie here, that this man was unknown to her, that everything was just a misunderstanding…

"We were told that you have a patient in your clinic that we… that we might know. Apparently he has lost his memory and they don't know who he is," Alan nervously tried to explain.

"And who would that be?" the nurse asked in a brisk, but not unfriendly manner.

"Charlie," Don chimed in before it occurred to him that the name probably didn't help the nurse. "31 years old, dark curly hair, about 5'7''…"

"Oh, yes, of course," the nurse interrupted him. In the whole clinic, they had only four patients whose identity wasn't established yet, three of them male and only one who fit the description. She made a few entries in her computer and then turned the screen around so that Alan and Don could see it. It was the same picture of Charlie that they'd sent to Don yesterday. Yesterday… a whole lifetime seemed to have passed since then.

The picture was still powerful enough to make their throats constrict and so they just nodded. It seemed to be enough for the nurse who now called a doctor who in turn received the two impatiently waiting men only one minute later. "I'm Dr. Andrews. Follow me. I'll take you to him." The simplicity of her words almost knocked them over.

"We're glad that you managed to get here so fast," she began while she led the two silent men through a maze of seemingly endless corridors. "For quite a while we've been at our wits' end as to what to do with Michael. He was depressive and couldn't remember –"

Although Don had thought he'd be much too tense to participate in any kind of conversation, he couldn't hold back his question: "Michael?" He felt the beginnings of a panic attack stir inside him. Wasn't it Charlie after all?

"Yes, since he couldn't remember his real name, we had to give one to him – not only for administrative purposes. Maybe you can imagine how much a name may contribute to make you feel like a human being. And Michael or rather Miguel was the saint whose feast it was on the day your son and brother has been brought here."

"And he doesn't remember anything?" Alan asked.

"Of course he does," the doctor disagreed. "Please let me explain: Michael suffers from retrograde amnesia. In a certain sense his condition is an exceptional case because it has both global and local effects, although at our current level of knowledge a typical clinical picture of amnesia can hardly be defined anyway. Michael, in any case, can recall neither the events that led to the loss of his memory nor personal data or personal contacts. His knowledge of facts, however, seems to be unimpeded. He could tell us the months of the year, the names of the presidents, the names of the different states… everything that doesn't affect his personality. Apart from that, however, he could also describe us pictures of places that must have something to do with his life, though we haven't been able to match those to anything yet. If he remembers you, I am optimistic that by and by he will regain his memory. Concerning his other mental abilities – well, you should keep in mind that amnesia only affects the memory. Of course, it seems as though in Michael's case it also contributed to the depression, but this isn't a primary symptom of that illness. What I'm trying to say is that Michael's cognitive abilities are completely unimpaired as far as we can judge."

Alan was a bit confused. He wasn't sure if he had understood everything, but neither was he sure if he cared. For he wouldn't if that Michael didn't turn out to be Charlie. He still found it unbelievable that Charlie should really be alive and he tried, for his own protection, to remain a bit skeptical. His success fell short of a degree which would have been healthy. His hope had been reborn and with almost unbearable tension he waited for the same thing to happen with his son.

"We're here," Dr Andrews announced and opened the door leading into a communal room where multiple people were sitting and talking, reading books or magazines or playing chess or cards. All three of them let their gaze wander through the sun-lit room. They didn't find him. For a second, Don's heart stopped beating. He wasn't here, Charlie wasn't here, they'd been mistaken…

With forceful steps the doctor led their way to the patio door on the far end of the room. Alan and Don forced themselves to follow her. They stepped out into the sunshine and had to blink before they could take in their surroundings.

Only about half a dozen patients were sitting out here around the small tables on the terrace enjoying the sun. In the park that was surrounding them, Don could see other people who were going for a walk along a pond or through the flower beds, relishing the beautiful weather.

But his attention was immediately captured by the dark head of the man who was leaning back in a plastic chair reading a book. He was turning his back towards them; still, the similarity couldn't be missed on Don and Alan: the hair, the height, the posture…

Dr. Andrews laid a hand upon his shoulder and he looked up from his book, but still Don and Alan couldn't see his face. Neither did they dare to move, though. They seemed to be set in stone.

"Michael," said Dr. Andrews in a friendly manner and with a smile on her face, "there are people here to see you."

Infinitely slowly, the man turned around until he was finally facing them and stood up. His features were showing surprise and guarded curiosity. "Hello," he said eventually.

Two seconds passed without anything happening.

"Charlie!" Don then called out thickly, unable to ban the sob from his voice. The next moment, he'd crossed the two-yards-distance that was still separating them, and had pulled his brother into a fierce hug. He firmly pressed his body against his and felt single tears running down his cheeks and into Charlie's hair.

It was unbelievable! This man was Charlie, it was Charlie, he was real, and he was alive!

Alan hadn't moved an inch. It was only when he felt the hot tears on his cheeks that he was pulled out of his trance. And slowly, as if he was dreaming, he moved towards the two of them. Few seconds later, Alan did something he hadn't considered possible anymore: he was embracing both of his sons.

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Don had closed his eyes. He indulged in the feeling of sensing his brother near him, of making sure that his warm, living body was here, beneath his hands. He sensed the warm spring sun on his face and the warmth seemed to bore its way into his heart. But at the same time, he felt the urge to open his eyes wide just to be able to drink in the sight of Charlie, his face, his form, his living eyes and not any longer those lifeless ones that again and again stared reproachfully up at him in his nightmares.

He could feel Alan flinch rhythmically. His father was sobbing. Don, too, could feel tears of joy running down his cheeks.

Eventually, the two elder Eppes-men released Charlie who – as they now noticed – seemed quite confused. "Charlie, is everything alright?" Don asked worriedly. He had wiped the tears from his face, but his voice still sounded quite thick. And his brain wasn't in top working order either. _Everything alright_ – he'd hardly uttered those words when he felt like slapping himself in the face. One look in Charlie's eyes was enough to determine that nothing was alright.

Not for Charlie. For Don, this was the best moment of his life.

"I'm –" Charlie's voice was croaky and he had to clear his throat. "I'm sorry, but… who are you?"

Automatically Alan and Don moved half a step backwards. The best moment crumbled into dust. They should have known, though. Still, hearing Charlie talk to them as if they were strangers was breaking their hearts.

"Charlie," – also Alan's voice was hoarse – "we're… We're your family."

Charlie didn't answer. He just stared at the two of them, scrutinizing them as though he was looking for some kind of clues for familiarity.

Don could hardly bear it. That silence… It created a tension that threatened to rip him apart from inside. He wanted to cry out, to rush up to his brother, to pull him into a hug, laugh with him, cry with him…

But Charlie didn't recognize them. He didn't recognize them. To him, they were strangers.

Don shook his head slightly. His breathing became more labored. He had difficulty comprehending. They had found Charlie. Charlie was with them again. But… something was missing, something wasn't right with this picture.

"I'm… I'm A-Alan," he heard his father say and it didn't slip Don's attention that his voice was trembling. "I'm your father."

Don was still trying to get to grips with this absurd situation when he noticed that two pairs of eyes were slowly and expectantly directed towards him. "I –" His voice was gone. He had to clear his throat, but it still sounded so hoarse that he wouldn't have recognized it himself. Much less Charlie. "I'm Don. Your brother."

It was just five syllables, but they'd stretched Don to his limits. He couldn't believe that he was actually doing this. It seemed to him just as unreal as that time in Charlie's house half a year ago before they'd gone to his funeral. Only that this wasn't Charlie's funeral. It was his renascence.

Slowly, Charlie turned his head towards the doctor whose presence – just like the presence of the other patients and visitors – Don had been doing his best to ignore until now. "I – I don't recognize them."

Don could see his father blanch. He clutched his hand around his father's forearm, but he wasn't sure whom he was trying to support by that, for he was certain that any moment now his knees would buckle underneath him.

The doctor gave them nothing more than a compassionate side-glance before turning her attention towards her patient. "If you want, Michael, you can stay here, of course. Nobody can force you to go with them. It's your decision."


	10. Crossroads

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1

* * *

10\. Crossroads

 _He couldn't see the figure very distinctly. It was lying on the floor, unmoving. The image of it was blurry and gone the next moment, changing into a new scenery, a small room, not much unlike a prison cell, illuminated by cold light emanating from the ceiling._

 _The image of the immobile figure came back again and again and even though he managed again and again to push it from his thoughts, it was still there, somewhere deep inside him. And as long as it was there, he wouldn't be able to find the inner calm he needed in order to become the man again he'd once been. He could sense it distinctly, this image had changed him…_

It had changed him, but the problem was that he didn't know who he'd been before. The last thing he could remember distinctly was his renascence. At least that was what it seemed like to him now when he thought back about how he'd woken up in that bright room. He'd been cared for both physically and mentally, they'd nursed him back to health and brought him back to life. To a new life, of necessity. For he hadn't known anything about himself.

They'd told him that he'd been found next to a barely used country road, unconscious and without any personal belongings. He'd been picked up and eventually been brought here. He'd been severely malnourished and dehydrated, and for some time, they hadn't known if he would survive or not.

He couldn't remember much about that and, more importantly, he couldn't remember anything about what had preceded this life-threatening state. And his amnesia. Apart from some abrasions and bruises, they hadn't found any injury, in any case no head injury, and thus all that remained to determine the reason for his memory loss were wild guesses.

This situation of not knowing had soon pushed him towards the edge of what was mentally bearable and finally even farther into the abyss of depression. He had sat there for days on end in a desperate attempt to finally remember his old life, doing concentration exercises without having any kind of success. His memory had remained incomplete; a part of his personality had still been missing. And without a personality of his own, he'd failed to see a reason to pull himself back onto his feet. He'd still been very weakened at this point and his physical state had been almost as run down as his mental one. He'd become lethargic and had treated his body with more and more recklessness, hadn't left the bed and just stared at the ceiling. However, time and the people here had helped him and slowly led him back into his new life. Eventually, he had indeed found enough strength to pull himself back onto his feet and try a new start.

Still, the beginning had been hard. It was true, he hadn't known what his former life had looked like, but he'd been quite sure it must have been better than his life here, a life in uncertainty and without a familiar face. A life spent under the shadows of those nagging questions: why couldn't he remember what had happened? Why wasn't there anybody that could remember _him_? Was there nobody looking for him? Didn't he have any friends, any relatives who cared about him? Maybe his real life hadn't been that much better after all, since he didn't have anyone in the world? Maybe he'd been so desperate with loneliness that he'd done something stupid and tried to hurt himself – was that why he was here?

The questions had made him even more lonely and desperate than he'd already been feeling, as if he were a lone wolf, a bizarre individual who had no attachment whatsoever to any other living being, who maybe wasn't even capable of such a bond. True, he'd already made a few, partially fairly close, acquaintances among the patients and also among the staff, but he hadn't established a real, meaningful relationship to any of them. For that, he lacked his personal history.

He had continued attempting to remember and break through that invisible wall, to find a way through this mist. There were certain things he could remember, they were as clear and distinct as if they were in front of his eyes right now. Images of an old house with a nice garden, images of green blackboards, images of a big building surrounded by some sort of park…

He had described those images to the clinic staff and they'd eventually come to the conclusion that he was or had been a student of some sort. But where, for how long, in which field and how he had come here – all those were things they still didn't know. However, the conclusion seemed reasonable that his field had something to do with math, for after he had overcome the depression, he'd downright devoured the few math books and science magazines they held in the clinic's own small library. He'd even begun criticizing the theories they held, finding other proofs or just continuing the approach in question.

He'd also searched his memory for images of persons. And he'd found some. However, those images belonged to the faces of famous people like the president or other politicians or actors. Of course, there were also other images which they hadn't been able to match to anyone yet and which he desperately tried to integrate into a life that no longer belonged to him. There were all those images that he was sure would help him remember as soon as he saw them in real life.

However, the faces of the two men in front of him fit none of these images.

Still, the sight of them had brought back the image of the unmoving figure to his mind. These two strangers before him had jiggled at something in his memory that in convoluted ways had led him back to that image that was always present, but always so aloof.

Thus, there had to be something about those two men. But what? Could it really be that his subconscious remembered them even though his conscious mind couldn't? He searched their faces and figures for any kind of familiar features, but he couldn't find any. Also their voices didn't help him. And their words?

The elder one had said he was his father. Well, could be true. Could be false as well. Granted, he couldn't think of a reason why this man should claim something like that if it _wasn't_ true, but he had trouble understanding anything in this world anyway.

And the other one had said he was his brother. His brother. He tried intently to find some sort of clue to find out if that was true but again without success. Did he even have a brother? He didn't know. But shouldn't he be able to remember if he had one?

He almost feared to get pulled back down into the depression. He had been waiting for this moment of reunion so eagerly, the moment when he'd finally be confronted with something familiar from his past. He had hoped so much that, in his mind, it had become an irrefutable certainty: he would get back his past and with it his future as soon as his past would finally have caught up with him.

Sadly, however, he seemed to have miscalculated. At least if he assumed that those two men were telling the truth.

He just didn't know what to do. Those two men were complete strangers to him. But not the other way round, or so they said. And if he understood things correctly, those two men came from California. And he hadn't forgotten his basic knowledge of geography, he knew where California and where Nebraska was and what distance lay between those two states. Therefore, it was quite unlikely that they had come here just to make him fail recognizing them and push him back into his depression. And he _wanted_ it to be true, he wanted to cling to that hope, he wanted to claim his life back.

On the other hand, he didn't know them. He didn't know what they wanted to do with him or what they expected of him. He'd have to leave everything behind that he knew, namely the clinic that had become his new albeit very small world. He'd be pushed into the unknown again. And who could tell if that wouldn't push him over the edge once more?

He just didn't know. He didn't know what to do. Stay or go? Be comfortable or courageous? Build himself a new life or try to get his old one back? _It's your decision_ , Dr. Andrews had said. The words were still hanging in the air heavily. The three persons in front of him were expecting an answer. He had to decide. He was standing at the crossroads and had to choose his life, and neither path seemed overly welcoming.

He could see the tension radiating from the two men. All of a sudden, he was filled with compassion. He had almost made up his mind to stay here, at least for the time being. Maybe he'd be able to remember them and everything sooner or later? Maybe he wouldn't have to go with them to an unknown environment that should be known to him but maybe would turn out not to be familiar at all?

Now, however, he realized that the future path of his life was of importance not only for him, but also for those two men. Before their patience would run out for good, Charlie spoke up. "Can I… can I think about it?"

His guilty conscience gave him a stab when he saw the two men swallow heavily and their eyes widen. But the words of his doctor made him feel a little better at once. "Of course," she said softly. "Take all the time you need. If you've got any questions – we'll be in my office. You can come in any time."

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Don had considerable difficulty concentrating. He just couldn't get it out of his head and neither did he want to. Charlie was alive! He was alive, he was here, he was fine, they had seen him, he was under the same roof as them!

Don almost brimmed over with joy. Still he tried to keep a clear head at least for the following minutes. He tried to listen to the doctor as she told them everything she knew about Charlie and tried to answer her questions adequately. And if Don could rely on his judgment of her reaction, then his father and he didn't fail as miserably as he'd feared.

"If I interpret your demeanor correctly," Dr. Andrews began, with a slight smile on her lips, as soon as they'd sat down, "then you've recognized Michael as your relative – what was his name? Charlie?"

The two men nodded. Dr. Andrews gave them a sympathetic look which, however, went unnoticed, and decided that it would probably be best to do the talking herself for a start. "I assume that you'd like to know what happened to Charlie. I'm afraid however that we don't know much else apart from what I told you earlier. Mich… _Charlie_ has been brought to us last autumn. Apparently a trucker has found him unconscious and in a life-threatening state next to a country road. He'd been brought first into a hospital and then, when it turned out that he couldn't remember who he was, he was brought here. Our facility is designed for longer stays, especially for patients with memory problems. Plus we're more accommodating than a common hospital regarding payment.

"When your son and brother came into this facility, we were, frankly, unsure whether he would pull through. He was severely underweight and seemed apathetic. In the hospital, they had remedied the symptoms immediately endangering his life, that is the dehydration and the malnourishment, but the depression and its physical effects remained a serious concern. Being depressed is an almost logical consequence from such a widespread loss of memory, but there is still the possibility that it was the depression that led up to the lack of nourishment and fluids and possibly to the loss of memory. Can you tell me if Charlie has been suffering from depression before his disappearance?"

Alan shook his head, slightly aghast. "No – I mean, of course we can tell you, but no, Charlie has never been depressive." A moment later, he thought of the time after Margaret's death. Charlie had been completely withdrawn, hadn't talked to anybody – but had he been depressive? He hadn't shown the lethargy Dr. Andrews had been talking about, had just locked himself up in his garage and immersed himself in his math. He hadn't really been depressive, had he? After all, he'd pulled out of it on his own, eventually. No, he'd just been grieving, albeit in an extreme way. Alan managed to push the thoughts aside, not willing to think about this now.

The doctor turned her questioning look at Don and he managed to shook his head and utter 'never'.

Dr. Andrews made a note in the file in front of her. "That's generally good because it suggests that the depression was indeed a consequence of the amnesia and not necessarily a contributing factor, although we still cannot completely dismiss that theory.

"A bit over two weeks ago, then, Charlie's condition began to improve rapidly. The depression receded even though Charlie remained very quiet and withdrawn, though this isn't unusual with symptoms like his. While the depression was receding, our staff managed to get more and more into contact with him and to pry from him further pieces of his memory. Sadly, though, it wasn't enough to determine his identity. What we soon realized, however, was that Charlie had an immense interest for mathematics and science in general. Can you confirm that?"

"Oh yeah," the words escaped Don.

Dr. Andrews raised her eye-brows with a mixture of amusement and confusion and Alan stepped in to explain to her with a slight smile on his lips: "Charlie has been fascinated by math his whole life. And gifted as well. He's a professor for applied mathematics in Los Angeles and known and highly estimated as a mathematician worldwide." Alan couldn't help to show his pride. It just felt so good to be able to say those things about a living son instead of a dead one.

"Professor? That explains some of the images he described to our staff. We thought he was a student. But it is a positive development that these images seemed indeed to come from personal experience. It allows us to hope that Charlie will remember things as soon as he is confronted with familiar persons and things from his life."

Don didn't know what prompted him to ask the question because he wasn't at all sure whether he would like to hear the answer, but he voiced it nonetheless: "And then why can't he remember us?" He felt like a sulking child who'd been promised ice cream and now didn't get any. Only that he'd been promised a brother and got a stranger. Or rather he got a brother for whom _he_ was a stranger, and Don wasn't entirely sure what he thought was worse.

Dr. Andrews was experienced enough to know what was going on in Don's mind. "You have to give your brother time, Mr. Eppes. I'll have to warn you of course: it is very well possible that Charlie will never completely regain his memory. _But_ it isn't unlikely either that he will be able to remember parts or maybe even all of his old life. However, he's going to need time to do that so he can adapt to all the new situations he will find himself in. And please do not forget that Michael – I'm sorry, _Charlie_ – has just recuperated from a depression. His current mental state is still very delicate. In his interest, you should try to avoid any kind of pressure."

Don nodded, feeling thoroughly put in his place although the words had been delivered in a polite manner. Hurting Charlie was the last thing he wanted, but it was a comfort knowing that his doctor cared so much about him.

"Anyway," she continued, "the night before last, Charlie dreamed of your phone number. He didn't tell our staff until the afternoon and we tried at once if it would lead somewhere, which it did, so I guess it was worth it."

 _Oh yes, it was worth it_ , thought Don. With that phone call, Charlie had reentered their lives. At that thought Don's heart made a leap because just then he saw his brother also enter his field of vision. Over Dr. Andrews' head, he could see through the window and into the large park. And there, just now, Charlie had appeared, his eyes turned thoughtfully towards the ground while he was making his way towards the big pond and sat down at its rim.

Dr. Andrews noticed his gaze and turned around. A smile appeared on her face. "Charlie seems to like this place," she told them. "I've noticed that he often sits there staring into the water."

"He's observing the fish," Don explained softly. He couldn't take his eyes off Charlie. It was as if his little brother was sitting at home in their garden and staring into the koi pond in order to decipher the patterns of movement of the ornamental fish. Just the way he always had been.

But he wasn't sitting at home, at the koi pond. Don had difficulty comprehending it, but he could sense that _this_ was Charlie's home now. Could he even remember his koi pond?

And much more important than that: if he couldn't remember his father and him – would he come with them, would he come home?

And what would happen if he wouldn't?

 _Please, Charlie, please make the right decision._

* * *

That evening, they returned to Dr. Andrews' office and this time, Charlie was there as well. Don noticed that his brother was keeping a certain distance from them, some kind of safety distance, and the fear that Charlie could have decided against them was growing fast.

"So you've decided?" Dr. Andrews made sure. "You know that you can take more time if you'd like."

Part of Don wanted to wring the doctor's neck. He couldn't bear waiting for Charlie's decision any longer. Another part wanted to support her in her coaxing. Charlie should think about this thoroughly, preferably as long as it took him to remember them, for Don didn't know what he would do if Charlie decided to cross them out of his life.

"I don't need any more time," Charlie said. He seemed a bit uncertain, but was obviously trying not to show that. "I hope it's okay with all of you," he started and Don knew this was the end. "I'd like to come with you."

Don almost leapt to the ceiling. Charlie wanted to come with them? He didn't want to stay here, he wanted to come home with them? Don could hardly believe his luck! Charlie was with them again, he would come home with them, voluntarily!

Don would have liked to cheer out loud, but he suppressed that urge. The only gestures revealing his joy were the rather foolish grin on his face and the leap that lifted him up from his chair, albeit not to the ceiling.

It was then, however, that his joy was somewhat dampened already. When he jumped to his feet intending to rush up to his brother and hug him, he could distinctly see Charlie flinch. He still didn't trust them. He still didn't feel comfortable with them. He was still afraid.

With moderate success, Don tried to be neither desperate nor disappointed nor angry. _Time_. They just had to give Charlie some time. Then everything would be resolved and come in order again. As soon as Charlie would have re-accustomed to his old life, everything would be the way it always had been, before Charlie's death.

Don could hardly wait to get home.


	11. Cognitive Emergence

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1

* * *

11\. Cognitive Emergence

Alan and Don took a room in the small town close to the clinic. They spent the night there and after all the overwhelming events they even managed to get some sleep. The day, however, they spent at the clinic. With Charlie.

It seemed to Don as if the sun was suddenly shining more brightly. Again and again it hit him that Charlie was _alive_ , that he was with them again! Don would have liked to hug the entire world.

For the moment, however, he couldn't even hug Charlie. Dr. Andrews had advised them to spend a lot of time with him and prepare him for his return home. She'd also asked them to leave Charlie time and space for himself though. She'd repeatedly inculcated them with the reminder that they were strangers to Charlie and that he had to get used to the new situation and the new faces.

Don had accepted each and every one of her points. He would have accepted everything now that he had his little brother back.

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"Come in," they heard the answer to their knocking before entering Charlie's room. It reminded them a bit of their own motel room, only that it was a bit smaller. The anonymity however was the same. One single magazine on the nightstand underneath a note pad, no books on the shelves, no pictures on the walls or on the nightstand.

Charlie stood up from his bed and put his hands in his pockets. "Hi," he said smiling, but unable to hide his nervousness.

"Good morning, Charlie," Alan replied, feeling utterly lost. He wanted to cross the room and pull Charlie into his arms; the formal setting of the situation was unbearable.

"How're you doing?" Don asked. Alan was sure that he was just trying to get the conversation going, but he didn't fail to notice what a clever start this simple question was.

"Good… good… and you?" Charlie bit his lower lip.

"Now we're fine," Alan said and only Don could grasp the entire meaning of his words.

"Well then…" Charlie was obviously looking for something, _anything_ else to say. Eventually his gaze fell on the small table close to the wall. "Care to sit?" Luckily for Charlie and to Alan's and Don's dismay, there were only two chairs next to the table so that Charlie took a seat on his bed. In safe distance. "Alright then…" He hesitated before voicing the question that was the most important one at the moment. "What's going to happen now?"

Don immediately jumped into the topic. "We've already booked a flight, for the day after tomorrow. If that's okay with you."

They could tell that this was anything but okay with Charlie. Everything was going much too fast. Two days? In only two days he should leave everything behind and go with those unfamiliar people to an unfamiliar place that should be familiar to him? He swallowed. "Yeah, sure. That's great."

"We can cancel the booking if you'd like. That's not a problem at all," Alan hastened to say.

But Charlie knew that he had already given his consent. He had already agreed to going with these people and it didn't matter when it would be, he would always have a hard time doing it. Maybe it was best to put the first step behind him as soon as possible. "No, that's okay, really." He hesitated again, hoping the others might continue the conversation, but they were just as helpless as him. "Well then… Dr. Andrews said that maybe you could tell me something, you know… about me." The request sounded bizarre and utterly forlorn.

"Yes. Yes, of course," Alan hastened to say, though he was at a loss where to start. "What would you like to know?"

If only he knew. "Everything?" he asked tentatively.

"Okay." Alan was sure that this was by far the craziest thing he'd ever done – including everything he'd done in the 60s –, as he nervously cleared his throat and began to tell his presumed dead son about his life. "Well, then. Your name is Charles Edward Eppes, or just Charlie, and you were born on September 5 in 1975 in L.A. where you spent your childhood with Don, your mother and me."

Charlie nodded. "And his… our mother, where is she? Why isn't she here?"

Apparently Charlie still hadn't lost his inclination to ask the relevant questions. "She's dead," Don answered. "She died of cancer three years ago."

Charlie would have liked the ground to open and swallow him up. "Oh. Oh. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I mean… you couldn't know, right? And after all, she was your mother as well."

 _Yeah. Only that_ _I_ _don't remember her._ Charlie decided to leave that topic behind as soon as possible and to resort to less precarious matters. "What else? What do I do for a living?" Initially, he'd meant to ask about other aspects of his personal life, but he'd managed to hold himself back in time. He didn't want to make this situation even more embarrassing that it already was. Maybe his wife had died too, who knew. Maybe that was why he had lost his memory. Maybe –

Don's voice prevented him from coming up with further outlandish and hardly uplifting theories: "You're a professor at a university. For applied mathematics."

Professor for applied mathematics! Now _that_ was something to lift his spirits. For one, it was much more down to earth than the whole rest of his life or his theories about his familial situation, and two, that sounded like a really good job. And it had to do with math.

"Amita's a professor there as well," Alan added.

"Amita?" Charlie repeated, uncomprehending, and it was too late when he saw the glimmer of hope in Alan's eyes crumble to dust. Alan – _his father_ , Charlie tried to tell himself – had laid out bait for him. Too bad he hadn't snapped at it. That name didn't mean anything to him.

"You're an item," Don explained to him. "Since she finished her doctorate, or in any case that's when you officially started dating. She was your student before that."

Nothing of that rang a bell. _What does she look like?_ he meant to ask, but he didn't dare. With all probability, the description wouldn't help him either and he wasn't sure if he could bear such a disappointment right now. "Why isn't she here?" he asked instead and thought his question was innocuous.

He was wrong. Apparently _no_ question was innocuous. "She doesn't know about this," Don answered and strangely couldn't look him in the eye anymore. "When the clinic called and told us that you might still be alive, we didn't tell anyone. We didn't want to stir up their hopes because we just… We just had a hard time believing that it's really true. Megan's the only one besides us who noticed that something's going on, but not even she knows anything concrete."

Don's voice had become rougher and Charlie was glad that he could think of a question so that they wouldn't have to bear that uncomfortable silence again. "Megan?"

"She works with me. She's with Larry." Charlie started to ask, but by now, Don had realized that Charlie _really_ didn't remember. "Larry's also a professor at CalSci, the university where you teach. He was your professor in Princeton and later your mentor, and he's your best friend."

Don sounded a bit tired, so just the way Alan looked like and Charlie felt. Charlie's inability to remember was wearing them all out. Therefore, the ensuing silence wasn't as inconvenient to them as they'd feared.

Charlie inhaled deeply. He tried to recall all the facts he'd just learned. He was Charlie, not Michael, that was something he'd have to get used to. Then there was his job: professor for applied mathematics. He'd have no problem dealing with _that_. He had a girlfriend ( _Amita_ , he silently repeated her name), a best friend ( _Larry_ ) who was dating a co-worker of Don's ( _Megan_ ). He was just intending to ask about his brother's work when he noticed the man's tired gaze and, now uncertain, refrained from further questions. Better recall once again all the information he already had, he didn't want to forget anything. Megan: the co-worker, Larry: best friend, Amita: girlfriend, job: professor for applied mathematics, name: not Michael, but Charlie, Charlie – what was it again? The name had been unusual, something monosyllabic with E… Etz? Elps? No, Eppes! That was it, Charlie Eppes –

"Wait!" That name meant something to him. "I'm Charles Eppes?"

"Yes," Alan confirmed. He was alert now. Did Charlie remember?"

"Are you serious?"

At the same rate as Alan's tension, his confusion increased. "Of course. Why do you ask?"

Charlie, too, seemed slightly confused. "I read his work. In the library, there are some magazines about recent findings in several scientific areas. Among the articles, there are also three or four written by him." His frown deepened. "That is, by me."

Alan and Don tried to smile, they really did, but they rather felt like crying. They had thought that maybe Charlie did remember something, _anything_. And then that. But they had to try not to show their disappointment. Charlie just needed some time, that was all.

Charlie seemed to think the same thing, though more in relation to the here and now. He stood up from his bed and began walking restlessly up and down the room. Every now and then he glanced at the note pad on the nightstand.

"Would you mind –"

He was thankful not to be forced to end his question seeing that he was interrupted by Don. "Sure. We'll be back later."

They stood and reluctantly left the room. Don had been sensing that Charlie wanted to be alone, but the fact that he had actually voiced his request (or at least started to) still hurt him.

Just like so many other things. Yesterday, when Charlie had said that he didn't recognize them, that he couldn't even remember having a brother, Don had been devastated. If Charlie didn't even know whether he had a brother or not, how irrelevant must have been the position he had occupied in Charlie's life?

And the fact that it was apparently no different with all the other people in Charlie's life… Don didn't know whether that should make him feel relieved or even more perturbed. He just knew that it made him sad. Charlie seemed to have much less difficulty remembering his math than remembering the persons who had thought they were close to him.

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As soon as Don and Alan had left his room, Charlie took up the note pad. In it, he had put down his thoughts, predominantly concerning mathematical papers he'd read. After all, he'd had to occupy himself somehow, and when one nurse had suggested the field of mathetmatics to him, he'd found out with surprise and relief that he felt at home in the world of numbers.

Now, however, a new component had entered the game. Charles Eppes. In the various papers, he'd stumbled across that name multiple times and had always stopped there with a certain kind of fascination. About many papers, Charlie had made notes concerning what he would have done differently or what kind of further corollaries could easily be deduced from the conclusions presented. That had not been the case with the theories of Charles Eppes, though. Charlie had agreed with the thoughts of this particular mathematician in an almost eerie manner and he had hoped that someday, he might find a reason to write a letter or an email to this Dr. Eppes.

And now that man was himself.

Charlie didn't know what to think about that. Of course it was great to finally know his identity. On the other hand it was… strange. He was someone he had previously known, even held in some esteem, but considered a stranger. Charlie decided it was quite confusing.

In the end, though, it felt good. He was Charles Eppes. Those papers in those magazines had been written by _him_ , those were _his_ thoughts, his alone. That was fascinating. And more than that, it was proof that he had really existed before he'd come here. He now had a past, a personal history.

He had written those papers. And as Michael, he'd immediately understood them. It was like he was talking to himself through those articles. Those papers came from his former life, he understood them and they disclosed to him his own thoughts. Nothing was distorted, everything was clear and lying before him openly.

Now somewhat calmer, Charlie regarded the calculations and remarks in his notepad. Yes, math was indeed his home. It was the anchor he needed in order to get through all this and get his life back.

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Alan and Don had decided to go to the community room containing the library. While Alan was browsing through the magazines, smiling every time he stumbled over Charlie's name, Don found a book containing a calendar with the feasts of Catholic saints.

Soon, Don had found what he'd been looking for: Miguel Pro, a Spanish martyr, put to death in 1927. It had to be him, other than that there was no Michael or Miguel who could have served Charlie as a namesake in this clinic. Don looked at the date and for a moment, he couldn't breathe. November 23. Charlie had been here since November 23. That meant that from his disappearance and presumed death until his reappearance, there had elapsed one and a half months. One and a half months during which he was probably held somewhere against his will. And probably, something had happened during that month and a half that had led to his memory loss.

What might they have done to him? And who?


	12. Magic of Home

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1

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12\. Magic of Home

Charlie felt like a prisoner. His thoughts were revolving around his uncertain future, permanently voicing that one question _What will it be like?_ , and wouldn't let go of him. He tried to escape, to calm down, but he was nervous and antsy and could hardly stand this period of waiting.

The plane increased his feeling of imprisonment. He was wishing so fervently that it would go faster, that it would bring him to the answers sooner, but of course his sheer will couldn't influence the laws of physics. The plane was fast – and the faster it was taking him home towards the answers that lay waiting for him there, the more insecure he became if that was really what he wanted.

He tried to relax. He had a hard time doing it, because even that feeling of imprisonment, be it physically or as a prisoner of his own mind, was jiggling something in his memory and made panic rise inside him. The feeling of not being able to get out… the feeling of helplessness… the feeling of having to suffocate…

"You alright, buddy?"

Charlie flinched and his widely opened eyes first found the hand on his forearm, then Don's face. One distraught and one worried pair of eyes exchanged fearful glances. Charlie nodded and slowly realized that he'd been about to have a panic attack from which only Don had saved him. "Sure," he croaked and had to clear his throat. As if from a distance, he noticed the hastiness and hoarseness of his words, while his heartbeat got slowly back to normal. "Sure, I'm fine."

Don continued looking into those eyes that were still filled with fear, but at least the dullness from the file's picture was gone. For the moment he was satisfied with seeing that his brother had come back to reality. He inhaled deeply, though without taking his eyes off his little brother. He just couldn't stop staring at him, and be it just to make sure that he was still there.

They had Charlie back. Now, they just had to make sure that he could go back to being his old self again. "Hey, Charlie." It was unbelievable. His voice still sounded hoarse as soon as he was talking to Charlie. "Hey. Would you… I mean… do you maybe want to talk to someone?" _Me, preferably?_ he silently added.

Charlie shook his head. Don tried to be understanding – _time_ , he thought, _he just needs time_ – and was about to retreat and lean back in his seat again, pretending to leave Charlie alone, when his brother surprisingly answered: "I don't know."

Well, that was better than a 'no', right? "I'm, uh… I'm always available to you."

Charlie nodded. They fell silent.

Don cleared his throat. "Charlie, I… I meant to tell you that… that I'm really glad you're back."

Charlie nodded. "I'm also glad to be back."

 _Right_ , thought Don. Charlie really seemed to be in a great mood. "You don't sound like you are."

Charlie was silent.

"Charlie… I'd like to understand you. I want to help you."

Again, Charlie remained silent. Don didn't know what else he could say, but that was when Charlie finally spoke up. "I don't understand me myself."

For a minute, Don tried to understand – if not his brother, then at least his words –, but he failed. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know who I am, Don. Neither do I know who you are. I don't know anyone or anything, not even myself."

Don swallowed. "That's going to be over soon, Charlie. As soon as we're home, you'll start remembering, I'm sure."

Charlie nodded, but they knew that they were both afraid that their hope could turn out to be vain.

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When they got off the plane, all that Charlie wanted was to go home. Then it occurred to him that he didn't have a home. Then he realized that he didn't care. He was so exhausted from all of the day's events that he just longed for calm and rest. Leaving the clinic had been hard on him, even though there were only three patients with whom he was close enough to have exchanged his address. Neither on the plane had he been able to relax, he'd been much too agitated. It was just so much, so many new things, so many people, so much time to be spent in the company of others.

He'd almost fallen asleep during the taxi ride and when they stopped, he couldn't think of anything he'd rather do than remain sitting there riding endlessly through the night. He struggled to get out of the car and was relieved that Alan and Don took their own bags and he didn't have to carry any baggage.

He avoided looking at the house and also at the furnishing when they entered. Alan led him, as he said, in his old room. Charlie blocked out his surroundings. He was much too exhausted to bear the disappointment if he looked at the house just to find nothing familiar in it whatsoever.

He fell into a heavenly soft bed and while he was slipping into a restful slumber, there was a moment when he wished never to wake up again.

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Don opened the door softly. The light emanating from the corridor painted an irregular quadrangle on the floor. He left the door open wide enough so that he could see the outline of his sleeping brother. Slowly, he stepped closer, watching the quiet figure.

He smiled. It was so wonderful to see Charlie again, to know he was right here, to hear him breathe. Charlie was with them again. He had come back from the realm of the dead and Don would be forever thankful for that.

He would have liked to give his brother a hug, but he didn't want to wake him. Instead, he just laid a hand on his thin shoulder, pressing it gently. He would have thought that Charlie would continue sleeping peacefully, that at most he would snuggle down deeper in his comforter. He hadn't expected the effect he caused with his light touch.

Charlie jolted upright. Don's hand had disappeared from his shoulder, but still Charlie was thrashing about like a crazy person.

"Who's there?" Charlie gasped and Don's stomach turned. Charlie had managed to put so much fear, so much terror in those two syllables that this uncomfortable tone was now mirrored in Don's eyes.

"Charlie, please, calm down…"

Don could have hardly managed to place his request further from the truth. Charlie didn't even think about stopping his panic attack. It was hard to determine whether he was thinking about anything right now.

"Charlie, please –"

Don had raised his voice a bit and tried to put his hand back on Charlie's shoulder. As a consequence, Charlie's fight, instead of abating, became even more ferocious.

By now, Don was getting really afraid, not just because Charlie was acting like a maniac. If his brother didn't calm down soon, it was only a matter of time until he would hurt himself.

"Charlie!" Don's tone had become much more strident and louder and just to put more force behind his words, he took the risk: he took Charlie in his arms. He was holding his little brother's torso and his thin shoulders firmly pressed against his own chest. He could feel Charlie struggle, could feel that he was still trying to get away from him, but he wouldn't let him. He wouldn't lose Charlie a second time.

"Let go of me!" Charlie didn't stop fighting, he jerked, trying to free his hands so he could continue thrashing about, but Don held him firmly.

"Calm down, Charlie. Just calm down. It's me, Don."

With one second of delay, Charlie's fighting became abruptly weaker. "Stay calm," Don whispered softly into Charlie's ear. "I'm here."

The fight had now stopped for good. Charlie was sitting motionlessly in his bed. That didn't mean that Don was loosening his hold, though.

"Don?"

Charlie's voice sounded soft and thin in the darkness. Frail, vulnerable.

"Yeah, I'm here, buddy."

Don could feel his brother slowly relax in his arms. The shoulders slumped a bit, loosened up. The hostile atmosphere dissipated in the dark. Don, too, was now slightly loosening his hold around Charlie's shoulders, though he didn't release his little brother. He was savoring this moment of closeness.

Charlie's tension decreased further and a heavy fatigue overcame him. He laid his head against Don's shoulder and felt more secure that he had been feeling for as long as he could remember. He could feel Don's calm, steady breathing in his neck and in his curls and closed his eyes.

"Are you okay now?"

Charlie nodded slightly, his eyes still closed. "Just startled me," he mumbled.

A wave of guilt washed over Don. Charlie should have gotten some rest, he could have continued sleeping peacefully if only Don hadn't pursued his egoistic urges. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "Didn't mean to."

"'s okay."

Don swallowed, closed his eyes firmly, pressed Charlie's upper body against his once again just to feel his lungs work and his heart beat and then slowly let go of him. He didn't think he'd be able to contain his emotions if he stayed, and thus he was drawn outside while at the same time he didn't think he could bear leaving Charlie behind just yet.

"You're okay?" he made sure once again and the thickness of his voice told him what he needed to do.

He could feel Charlie nod and so he stood on unusually wobbly knees. "Okay then… sleep tight." Even in his own ears, the words sounded awkward and he searched frantically for other, more helpful words, which he eventually found with relief. "If you need anything – just ask me or Dad." His voice still hadn't lost any of its hoarse quality and with a last glance at Charlie, he swiftly strode from his room. He closed the door gently behind him, leaned his back against it with his eyes closed, and inhaled deeply.

"Everything alright?"

Don gave a start. His heart only began beating normally again when he saw his father standing at the top of the stairs.

He nodded. His voice was – be it still or yet again – a bit trembling when he replied: "He was just startled when I came in. But I think he's okay now."

They both knew that 'okay' was a rather inadequate description. Charlie had been dead, then reborn and was now trying to fight his way back into a life that he couldn't remember. Nothing was 'okay'.

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Everything at least seemed 'okay' when all three of them were sitting at breakfast the next morning. Shortly after Don, Alan had gone into Charlie's room as well. His youngest had still been awake, apparently too upset to rest for the night. Alan had brought him a glass of water and then reluctantly left him for the night. He had to stay strong now, he needed to let Charlie come to terms with the situation for himself first. Everything he could do was help him to get all the calm and rest he needed to do that. Like when he'd made Charlie's bed, just in case, before they'd gone to Nebraska. Turned out it had been a good idea.

Don and Alan had agreed to letting Charlie sleep, which, however, didn't keep them from checking every half hour that he was really there, that he was lying in his bed and breathing regularly. The wonders that sleeping pills could bring about.

Until now, they hadn't mentioned the previous night and they didn't intend to. Charlie evidently seemed either to have pushed his panic attack to the back of his mind or to really have forgotten about it. The nervousness he exhibited could mean both.

Now, though, it was the way it always had been. He was sitting with them at the dining room table having breakfast as if nothing had ever happened.

But no. No, that wasn't true. It wasn't exactly the way it had been before. Charlie had changed. Attentively, Don regarded his little brother. His hair was a bit longer than he remembered and his complexion seemed a tiny bit paler, but maybe that was just the light playing tricks on him, for other than that, his brother looked remarkably fit. Alert. Alarmed. Tense.

That was it, tense. Don's gaze went towards Charlie's shoulders. Stiff. He sighed while his gaze darted back to Charlie's eyes. Something wasn't right with those. The complexion was one thing, but those eyes…

"What is it?"

Much too late Don realized that those eyes had been looking at him. "S-sorry, Charlie. Didn't wanna stare." Great, he couldn't even talk in complete sentences anymore. His brother had once again managed to rattle him completely.

But hell, he'd disappeared, after all! No, not just disappeared, died! Charlie had been _dead_!

Who could blame Don for staring at his little brother?

It was just… so incredibly overwhelming, and Don still had a hard time believing what he saw. He'd take it, though.

"What would you like to do today, Charlie?" Alan asked and so Don could indulge in his fascination a bit longer.

Charlie didn't answer at once. He could hardly say 'remember', after all. "I don't know," he began cautiously, "I guess I'd like to… just look around a bit? If that's okay with you."

Alan wanted to cry out. His son was behaving like a stranger. "Charlie, this is _your_ house. You can do whatever you like."

"Okay. Um… thanks."

They stood and Charlie was just about to help load the dish-washer when Alan dissuaded him. "It's alright, Charlie, I'll do it."

When Charlie looked at him with those dark eyes, Alan felt a wave of relief wash through him as he noticed that they held something impish that got through the sadness and made him think of the way things had been before. "I thought this is my house? So you should hardly treat me like a guest."

Alan smiled. "Well, I may take you up on that later. But for now I'm still going to load the dish-washer by myself. I've got nothing else to do anyway."

Charlie gave in and, still a bit insecure, started strolling around the various rooms. This house… He hadn't said anything during breakfast, but he'd been on pins and needles. Everywhere he'd looked…

Alan released a breath of relief. It was hard. He could hardly look at Charlie without having to think about all the pain of the past six months, but at the same time, it seemed almost impossible to him to divert his gaze from his youngest son. Apparently, they all needed some time and space.

Maybe it would get easier on them as soon as the others would be notified. Don and Alan had decided against informing them while they were still in Nebraska. There would have been too many unbelieving questions which to answer had seemed to them too complicated and too wearing at the time. Besides, they didn't want to miss their unbelieving and joyous faces upon hearing the news.

"Does this door lead to the basement?"

Alan turned, but it was Don who beat him to answering. "Yeah. You wanna go down there?"

"No, not now, but…" Charlie hesitated, swallowed and then turned to the two men. "I recognize the house."

Alan and Don looked into each other's eyes, took in Charlie's words and felt like jumping with joy. "Seriously?" Don asked as a pretty stupid grin appeared on his face.

Charlie nodded while his eyes continued taking in the house's interior. "I saw images of it while I was at the clinic. Is there a vase missing over there?"

He was pointing at the side-table next to the door. Alan tried to hold back his tears. Charlie remembered! "Yes, that's right," he answered, proud that his voice was hardly trembling. "It got broken only two or three months ago."

Charlie nodded again and seemed to direct his words partly towards them, partly towards himself. "And isn't there…" Few seconds later, also his faintest doubts had dissipated. He was standing in front of Margaret's portrait. "She's my Mom." It was a statement, not a question.

"You remember her?"

Charlie gave another nod. "I've seen images of her as well. And I… I knew that she was my Mom."

"Charlie, do you know what that means?" Alan's voice was brimming with joy and other barely suppressed emotions. "You're starting to remember!"

Charlie said nothing. For the two of them, it might seem that way. And of course he was glad to have recognized everything. However, all this was rather a confirmation of the things he'd already thought to know about himself when he was still in the clinic. It was nothing new. Don and Alan, on the other hand, remained strangers to him.

He felt a sudden urge to get away from everything. "There's a koi pond here, right?"

Alan hadn't given him an answer yet when Charlie was already on his way outside. He had to be alone.


	13. Acquaintances and More

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1  
 **A/N:** Another more reflective chapter before we'll let the story slowly pick up pace. Please enjoy. And another thanks to Mega07ghost for your constant support!

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13\. Acquaintances and More

Amita inhaled deeply, leaning back in her office chair. She had spent the past hour and a half with grading the term papers of her freshman class and her whole body was yearning for a break. Of course, she could have taken the papers home with her, but all that would have been in store for her there was an empty apartment. Here, at least, she wasn't alone, even though it was Sunday (and thus there were a bit less students and professors here than during lecturing hours) and even though on a quiet day like this, everyone was a bit more isolated than they already were.

She stood up and her eyes caught the piece of paper with the phone number Dr. Baumgarten, a guest lecturer, had given her the previous day. Amita had reacted to his flirtation in a rather guarded manner, but he hadn't given up. And he _was_ nice and intelligent and even fairly good-looking. Basically, he was a dream man. However, the man in her dreams was still Charlie.

It was true, they hadn't been a couple for long. First, her doctoral thesis had stood in their way and later… Later everything had stopped anyway. And Amita wasn't sure if it wouldn't be better for her to fight her way back into life after all. She would never cease loving Charlie and she would never forget him – but would he have wanted her to stop living her life after he'd died?

Amita smiled. No. No, he wouldn't have wanted that.

And again, he monopolized her thoughts completely until the ring of her cell-phone jolted her out of her melancholic daydreams.

"Yes? Amita Ramanujan?"

"Hi Amita. Listen, could you come over? There's something important we need to talk to you about."

She was surprised, but on the other hand, hearing Don's voice and his request gave her a feeling of home. "Sure. I just finished here anyway."

"Great. And do you happen to know where Larry is? Could you bring him with you?"

"He should be hanging around campus somewhere. I'm sure I saw him earlier. I'll see if I can find him, but that shouldn't be a problem. I guess we should be with you within half an hour, at the latest."

They said their good-byes and Amita hung up. Her forehead was slightly puckered. She had no idea why Don had asked them to come. It probably had something to do with Charlie's legacy. For if he had asked them to assist on an FBI case – which wouldn't have been any more surprising than this –, he would have told her and Larry to come to the FBI and not to his house, right?

Correction: to Charlie's house.

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Exactly twenty-four minutes later, Amita parked her car in the driveway of the Eppes-house and Larry and she got out. Alan and Don seemed to have been waiting for them, for they were already opening the door while the two professors were still approaching the house.

"Come in, come on in," Alan said. It didn't elude the two scientists that he was pretty jittery. Don too seemed to have changed since the last time they'd seen him. It was harder to put a name on it with him, though. His excitement seemed to be more internal, whereas on the outside, he was, as always, displaying calm.

"Sit down, sit down. Can I get you something to drink?"

"That would be nice, thank you," Amita answered. "But what is this all about?"

For the first time, Alan's excitement seemed to crumble a bit, and with some confusion the two professors noted the insecure glance he gave his son.

Don inhaled deeply and decided to start from the beginning. It would be hard enough anyway. His father seemed to understand that as well, for Don noticed that he disappeared with the pretense to get the beverages.

"It's about Charlie," Don began, hoping that they would get to the key fact as soon as possible. "I don't know if anyone told you, but my Dad and I haven't been in town the past few days. We were in Nebraska." He noticed their raised eye-brows and was at a loss at how to explain this wild story. "We were there because… Four days ago I received a phone call from a clinic there. They sent me a picture of Charlie. And they told me that he was a patient in this clinic."

With that, the confusion of the two friends was perfect. "You mean," Larry asked, deep lines furrowing his forehead, "that Charles had been their patient before he died? But he was working on his project. This makes no sense."

Don shook his head. In the back of his mind, he noticed that Alan was taking a lot of time with the beverages. Sometimes, he hated the trust people placed in him. "No, that's not what I mean. At the time they called me, Charlie was still their patient."

"But you just said you received that call only four days ago," Amita argued. She didn't seem to grasp the wonderful news either.

"That's right. Charlie didn't die back then. He's alive."

Don felt himself taken back to the day when he'd told Amita about Charlie's death. Her gestures then were almost eerily similar to her gestures now: the unbelieving look in her eyes, the shaking of the head…

"But… that can't be true." All of a sudden, her voice was hoarse and raspy.

"It is true," Don said and couldn't help that in addition to the smile that appeared on his face, unshed tears crept into his eyes. "Charlie's alive. He's upstairs in his room."

"You're saying he's in this same house?!" For a moment, Don had thought that Larry was about to jump from his chair, but apparently his feet didn't hold him.

Don nodded. He could feel the lump make an appearance in his throat again, but it was a sign of happiness, not of grief like it had been. "Charlie?" he called upstairs with his voice cracking slightly.

Amita and Larry stared at the stairs as if in trance. Then, they could hear a door open on the second floor and few seconds later, a completely alive Charlie appeared and descended the stairs with a tinge of his old, casual carefreeness.

Don gave them a sideways glance and was sure that Amita was about to faint. He was glad that they were already sitting down, and so Amita's only reaction was the 'Oh my God' that escaped her hardly parted lips. Larry seemed just as bewildered. The two professors were staring at Charlie as if he was a ghost. Maybe they thought he was.

"Hello," Charlie said, and with the tension that filled the room, the words sounded almost absurdly casual. Yet, Charlie was nervous beyond measure. It hadn't been easy for him, sitting upstairs in his room, left alone with all those objects that held a certain familiarity to him, until Don and Alan would have let Amita and Larry in on these crazy events. But of course he'd understood the necessity of it all when he'd realized that all those people thought or had thought that he was dead.

And he must have really meant something to them, Charlie realized. In any case, the tears in their wide-opened eyes seemed to be rather conclusive indicators for this hypothesis. The tears and their movements. For the latter weren't existent at first and just like Alan and Don just a few days earlier, those two people were sitting before him as if they were set in stone, until the woman managed to break away from her rigid stance and rushed up to him.

Quite overwhelmed with the situation, Charlie returned the firm embrace as well as he could while at the same time he was trying to ignore the woman's sobbing. He swallowed. _Relax_ , he told himself. _She's your girlfriend. You should be nice to her._

With an uneasy feeling in his stomach, it occurred to him, that this wom… that _Amita_ was probably expecting more from him than a 'nice' reaction, but at the moment she didn't seem to expect anything. At this point, she didn't seem to be capable to do anything else than cling onto him and brokenly whisper his name and 'Oh my God'.

"How is this possible?"

Charlie was almost glad that his attention was diverted from the woman, but it wasn't much easier to look into the unbelieving face of the man who still seemed to be rooted to the spot.

"Why haven't you told us that you…" The man fell silent and Charlie wondered if his voice always sounded as croaky as that, while Don – too late – realized what he had forgotten to tell them.

Charlie knew that he owed those two people an explanation, but he wasn't sure where to begin. After all, he didn't know what had happened himself. "I didn't remember you," he eventually confessed.

With a jolt, the dark-haired beauty in his arms freed herself, taking back half a step backwards and looking up in his face. "You _what_?"

Charlie didn't know what to do. He felt as though he'd done something wrong, and he was glad when someone came to his rescue. "He didn't remember anybody. He's got amnesia." Alan, like a knight in shining armor, had appeared in the swinging doors to the kitchen.

Amita looked first at him, then at Charlie, then back at Alan. "He's _got_ amnesia? He _had_ amnesia, you mean. You remember who we are _now_ , don't you, Charlie?"

Charlie felt uncomfortably observed, and there was a good chance that it was because of the four expecting pairs of eyes that were resting on him. "I'm… He's right. I still don't remember."

Amita took another step backwards. She just couldn't believe it. What on earth was going on here? Charlie wasn't dead, he was alive, but he'd forgotten all about them?

How sick was that?

Amita was certain to lose her mind any moment now, and immediately wondered if she hadn't lost it already, for that seemed to be the only explanation for all these crazy events.

"You're saying you don't know who we are?" she asked as soon as she was reasonably certain she had found her voice. It was still croaky and sounded confused though; everything was just too much…

Charlie shook his head, and she was certain that she was about to lose the ground beneath her feet. Backwards, she made the few steps towards the couch and let herself lower onto it, waiting for the room to stop spinning.

"Well, I know now," Charlie said in an inadequate attempt to make light of the situation. "Don and Al… my father told me everything. Or at least the most important things."

Amita shook her head. This was incredible! Charlie was dead and he was alive, like some sick application of Schroedinger's cat! She could see him right here before her, with her own eyes, in this same room, made of flesh and blood! It was just incomprehensible, she didn't know how to deal with this situation. Charlie was here, but he didn't know anything about her, didn't know anything about anything. Don and Alan had told him the most important things, true, but they could never have told him about the things that had happened only between him and her, those were things that Charlie still didn't know and that created a distance between them that seemed insurmountable, a distance that, maybe, was even greater than death.

"I still fail to comprehend…" All eyes turned towards Larry whose features were confirming his words beyond a doubt. "How… how is this possible?"

"We suspect that there has been a mix-up," Don answered in his most soothing manner. "They must have thought that some other body was… was Charlie. We think that he was held somewhere after that, maybe by a group of rebels. Somehow, he came back to the US and onto that road where he was picked up by a trucker."

Amita and Larry were staring at Charlie, gaping. "I don't know if all that is true." He felt compelled to defend himself, to set the record straight. "I don't know."

Silence settled upon them, a silence during which Charlie felt – for a reason! – observed, no, stared at. It was finally Alan who dispersed the silent tension by walking to the cabinet in the living room and taking out two small glasses and a bottle of brandy. Larry and Amita looked at him a bit flabbergasted. "It'll help," Alan said.

Amita found that he was right. She still couldn't believe it was true, but at least she didn't feel as numb anymore, and irrationally she even thought to have gotten a clearer head from the alcohol. "So what's going to happen now?"

Again, it was Don who answered, and Charlie started feeling a bit patronized. "The doctor in the clinic said that he might remember as soon as he's confronted with all the familiar things and places from his past. We should try to help him getting reacquainted with everything." He proudly added: "He's already recognized the house."

Charlie was about to correct him, to point out that you couldn't really say that, that he'd been remembering this house for weeks, but at the last moment, he restrained himself. Again, he thought he could understand something of what was going on here, of what was going on in these people. These four strangers were familiar with each other and they seemed overjoyed to have him back in their midst. They were rejoicing at a normalcy they'd thought they'd lost forever. But Charlie just didn't know how to deal with that, he didn't know where his place was.

"Is that what you want?"

Four heads turned around to face Larry and noticed the thoughtful look in his eyes which were still directed at Charlie. Just like all of them, he'd stared at the man they'd all thought to never see again, but in contrast to them, he hadn't been looking for familiar features in that man, but had tried to decipher the new ones. Charles' way of treating them had changed – and now that Larry knew about the amnesia, that didn't surprise him anymore –, but he also thought to have noticed a change in Charles' facial expressions when Don had explained the situation over his head. He couldn't help but wonder if he would have reacted differently before all that. But before he could find an answer to that question, another one occurred to him: did Charles even want what was being decided for him? Did he want to get acquainted with his old life?

He received uncomprehending glances which remained even when, thanks to Charlie's reply, they understood his question: "Of course I want to remember."

Larry breathed a sigh of relief. So Charles wanted indeed to re-enter their lives. That was good.

That was incredible.

Larry just continued staring, unable to take his eyes off Charles. It just wasn't possible. Was he hallucinating? Or was he looking back into another time? Maybe Charlie had managed to build a time machine?

That wouldn't be less credible that the idea that Charlie was still alive.

"Could somebody please confirm for me that this is actually happening?"

"It's happening, Larry." Larry looked up and his confused eyes found Don's grin. And if Don was grinning, something had to have changed drastically.

It was true. Charles was back. He was alive.

"Please excuse me for a moment," Larry managed, and before he escaped to the backyard, they could distinctly see the glittering streak on his cheek.


	14. Handle with Care

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1

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14\. Handle with Care

It hadn't taken long for Amita to prefer the backyard to the suffocating house as well. Outside, the vertigo had slowly receded.

They had stayed until the evening, but eventually they all had thought not to be able to take this any longer. The fact was that Charlie still couldn't remember them, and their remaining strength allowed them only to take the advice of Charlie's former doctor: time. They all needed to take their time.

Amita and Larry had hardly left the Eppes house with mixed but definitely confused feelings when inside, the phone rang. Apparently things never got quiet in this house.

Don watched his father answer the phone and his features and his words told him that the call was for Alan. Don was just about to turn away, wondering whether Charlie might have retreated to the garage and if maybe he could keep him company, when a word his father uttered made him whirl around again. "Dead?"

In his father's eyes, Don could only see the mirrored expression of his own confusion, although with the older one, it might have been more surprise than confusion. He was silent for a few seconds and then said, staring into nothing, "I'm so sorry, Martha." Again the silence. Don's eyes were still observing his father with tension. "Yes, of course I'll come. I'll be there as soon as I can. And… if there's anything I can do, anything you need, just call me, alright? Even in the middle of the night, don't hesitate to call. – Of course. See you soon then. And Martha…" He hesitated. "You will get through this. It's going to hurt less, eventually."

He ended the call and stared a few seconds at the receiver before Don dared asking, "What happened?"

"Jerry died. Heart failure," his father said. He still seemed to be standing slightly beside himself. Don could empathize with him. His uncle Jerry, who was the husband of his father's sister, was still quite fit, or at least he had been two years ago when Don had seen him last. He was living in Chicago, working there as a lawyer and was making quite a nice living. He wasn't even in retirement yet, he was just a bit over sixty years old. Don was sure that he and Martha had already been looking forward to his retirement, to spending more time together. They had probably always thought that there would be a later and a future life for them. Now this dream was shattered once and for all.

Don could imagine Martha's pain only too well.

"Oh," he said and was perfectly aware of how meaningless this comment was. "So you're going to Chicago?"

His father nodded. "The funeral is going to be in three days. I already told her I would come. I can't leave Martha alone with this." After all, she'd been there for him too after Margaret's death. It was just that Alan could hardly bear the idea of leaving his sons now. "But if you need me here…"

Don shook his head. "We're adults, Dad."

"That's not what I mean –"

"I know. But Charlie seems to be perfectly fine, right? And maybe it'll be easier for him if only one instead of two crazy people are hovering over him." The words had been delivered with a mild, albeit slightly forced smile, but Don didn't miss how hard it was on his father to have to leave his son so soon.

"The two of you could simply come with me." Even Alan knew that this was a bad idea. There would be tons of relatives at the funeral, most of which still considered Charlie dead. A lot of people he didn't know and many that he did know and that he, with all probability, wouldn't remember. Unfamiliar surroundings. Pure stress and thus poison for his currently so sensitive nerves.

Don shook his head again. "Don't worry, Dad. And look, you'll be back in a couple of days anyway." He glanced at the watch, changing the topic. "Has Charlie gone to bed already?"

Alan nodded. "I think so. It was a long day for him. And for me too, if I'm being honest. I think your brother had a good idea for once."

"Alright, Dad. Good night."

Don, on the other hand, didn't go to bed yet. Instead, he first looked for a long time at his mother's portrait, then strolled about the house aimlessly and finally let himself lower onto the couch. His head was still swirling with all the most recent developments, so much that he too felt more than tired; however, he was too occupied with his own thoughts to consider sleeping. In lieu of that, he remained there, just sitting on the couch, took a sip of his beer every now and then and thought, with the slightest of smiles on his lips, about the turns life could take.

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The house was still a bit unfamiliar to Charlie, especially in the mornings. In the early hours of the day, everything here was still so fresh and cool and everyday anew… new. Of course he remembered images of this house from times past, but these images came to him without the feeling of being at home. He still felt like an intruder, as if he were doing something forbidden when he tiptoed through the rooms. Sure, Don and Alan – only half-heartedly Charlie managed to correct the word in his mind to 'Dad' – had told him that the house belonged to him, but could this really be his home as long as he couldn't remember the feeling of being at home here?

The stairs creaked although Charlie walked as close to the wall as he could. And even though the noise reminded him of his childhood, it came unwanted. He didn't want to wake anybody up. He made the life of those two difficult enough without disturbing their slumber.

He smiled slightly. Those two were taking such great efforts. And now Amita and Larry, too. Charlie could hardly believe that they would go to such great lengths to help him remember. They really seemed to be quite attached to him.

 _Too bad the feeling isn't mutual. I don't know you._

Charlie halted. He couldn't go on, he had no strength left. Why on earth couldn't he remember? Why was he just not able to? There was no doubt in his mind that his life would be so much better if he could finally remember that life. For he'd not just lost his memory, he'd lost his feelings as well. At this moment, the latter seemed even more painful to him.

He just couldn't remember where he stood with all those people. Had he liked them before? Or had their relationship been rather cool? Were there things about them that could torment him mercilessly? And if so, which were they? And would those things still annoy him now?

Charlie sighed. For about the hundredth time he asked what would happen if he wouldn't be able to remember, not ever. He would have to build himself a whole new life, just the way he was doing now. He would have to build up not only his memory and his career, but also his relationships. However, judging from the work about relationship dynamics he'd found in the garage and he'd obviously written down himself, these relationships would probably differ from the ones he had had. At least from his side, because he had other grounds to base it on, other memories, more recent ones. The others, however, would expect him to treat them just like he had been treating them before all that.

The problem was that he didn't even know _what_ the others were expecting from him. He could only sense that they were discontent, maybe not with him, but definitely with the situation. He could sense their impatience even though they were trying hard not to show it. Alan and Don showered him with benevolence and… _yes_ , Charlie realized, _with love._ He, in return, didn't have any difficulty being nice to them, he liked them, they had already grown on him, even Amita and Larry although he'd only known them for a couple of hours. He liked spending time with all of them. However, he still didn't dare to let himself go. He still needed to remain in control, to stay at a distance, politely and friendly. He couldn't let himself go. Who knew if Alan and Don would cast him out as soon as he misbehaved?

As gently as possible, he tiptoed into the kitchen, careful that the swinging doors wouldn't make any sound. He filled a glass of water at the water faucet before his bare feet padded back, headed for the living-room. He had almost emptied the glass when, out of the corners of his eye, he spotted a figure on the couch and came to a sudden stop.

His arm lowered slowly until it hung loosely at his side, the glass remaining in his unfeeling fingers merely by coincidence. The figure on the couch was Don, but it wasn't the Don that Charlie had been getting to know over the past few days, not only him, there was another Don as well…

Charlie was far too preoccupied with the images in his mind to notice that the glass was slipping out of his fingers before it shattered on the floor.

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He and Charlie were children. They were running about in the garden playing tag, and although he was the bigger one, Charlie managed to escape from him every now and then. There, again he escaped, stumbling backwards. Suddenly, there was a clinking sound and Don watched Charlie's hand make contact with their mother's favorite vase which started wiggling and waggling and finally tilted sideways, over and above its center of gravity. Don was standing rigid.

The clinking sound abated although the vase was still wiggling. And besides, what was that vase doing here? They were outside. There was an error somewhere…

Don opened his eyes and realized almost instantly that he'd been dreaming. Of happier times. He sighed and sat up and shrank back when he noticed that he wasn't alone in the room.

Charlie was standing there staring at him, his eyes opened wide and directed strangely into something in the distance, something that seemed to lie behind Don or maybe deep inside him. There were shards at his feet, by the looks of it one of the drinking glasses from the kitchen cupboard. So that was where that clinking sound had come from.

Don's eyes wandered back up to Charlie's face and he was filled with an uncomfortable feeling. What was going on? Was Charlie sleep-walking? What did that look mean, those rigid eyes that filled him with an irrational fear?

"Hey, Charlie," Don said softly, but his brother didn't seem to hear him. Slowly and carefully, Don rose from the couch. He could see Charlie tense up. "Everything's fine, buddy," Don assured him, keeping his movements at a slow pace. He had hardly taken the first step towards Charlie however when his brother retreated, stepping right into the shards.

Don flinched with pain, instead of Charlie. For his brother apparently didn't feel anything. He just held those unsettling eyes fixed on Don.

"Charlie, stay there, please," Don warned him. He took an infinitely slow step towards his brother who, in turn, retreated two further steps backwards, walking through further splinters of glass.

"Stop, Charlie, damn it!"

Don regretted his harshness immediately. Charlie retreated one more step so that he was now standing in the corner of the room, unmoving. And those eyes were still staring at him, those insane, fixed eyes…

Don rounded the dining table hastily (but on the side without splinters of glass) until he was standing at a yard's distance from Charlie who was still staring at him fixedly.

Don didn't know what to do now. He could see that at least one of Charlie's feet was bleeding, but his brother still didn't seem to have noticed. "Hey, Charlie… everything alright?" The question sounded incredibly stupid in his ears, so much so that he directly added another one, "Can you hear me?"

Charlie nodded slightly, but his gaze remained.

"Let me take a look at your foot." Don extended his hands, but Charlie pressed himself further into the wall.

Don wanted to cry out. What the hell was going on? Why was Charlie suddenly afraid of him? No, that was worse than fear, that was sheer panic. "Charlie, I won't hurt you, I swear." It was of no use. Don could see that Charlie was still breathing shallowly and still staring at him as if he were seeing a ghost.

"I won't hurt you, Charlie. Do you remember me? I'm Don, I'm your brother." Still no reaction. "Do you recognize me?" Don's breathing had become shallower as well, so afraid was he to hear the answer.

Charlie remained silent. But he nodded.

Don almost felt like laughing with relief. "You recognize me? Then you know that I won't hurt you, right?"

This time, it took Charlie longer to answer, but again he nodded slightly.

"Alright. Alright, Charlie. Everything's okay. Just let me take a look at your foot." The uneasy feeling remained when Charlie continued directing those fixed eyes at him. But at least he didn't resist when Don approached. He bent down to Charlie's feet and felt himself unwillingly faced with an emotion very much akin to fear when he tore his eyes away from Charlie's face and instead turned his unprotected neck towards him. As if his brother would choose any instant now to plunge his teeth in it.

A bit morosely, Don shook his head. Charlie wasn't going to hurt him. Even if he was behaving like a mad-man right now.

"That doesn't look good, Chuck," Don assessed, trying to keep his tone reasonably light. "Some pieces are still stuck in the flesh, and your right foot is cut up rather badly as far as I can tell. We should better get you to the hospital to get some stitches."

He stood and stepped backwards, but Charlie still wouldn't react. "I'm just gonna put some clothes on. Don't move, alright?"

Charlie didn't move an inch, he just kept staring. Don shuddered and hastened to pull over his clothes which, gladly, were lying ready to hand over the backrest of the couch, so that he could continue watching his brother out of the corners of his eye.

* * *

Apart from the missing socks and shoes, Charlie was dressed, for which Don was immensely grateful. He didn't know how he would have gotten Charlie into his clothes right now considering that he wasn't being very cooperative, and his decision to take him to the hospital was only confirmed by that lack of cooperation. What he thought best, however, wasn't necessarily identical with what his brother would agree to. Charlie still seemed out of it, as if he'd been drugged. Don literally needed to drag him to his SUV. He made a face when he noticed the trail of blood Charlie left behind. He'd extracted all the shards he could find and had hastily put a makeshift bandage around the right foot, but the blood was obviously seeping through already. He wondered if he should have disinfected the wound after all, but he told himself that they'd be in the hospital soon anyway. Plus, dealing with his brother was so disconcerting right now that even though he was reluctant to admit it, he'd rather have some professionals around as soon as possible.

During the ride to the hospital, he wondered if it hadn't been a mistake not to wake up their father. Of course, he'd hastily written a note ( _Careful, broken glass. Charlie stepped in, took him to the hospital, just to be sure. Don't think it's too bad_ ), but he would have been quite relieved not to be alone with his suddenly so strange brother and especially he'd have preferred not to be responsible for him without even knowing what was going on. He'd been so normal yesterday – at least normal considering that he couldn't remember his old life. What on earth could have happened?

* * *

Don parked his SUV as close to the hospital's entrance as possible, went around the vehicle and opened the passenger's door. Charlie didn't seem to notice him. Don would have liked to shake him, but he was too afraid. He saw his brother's empty gaze and his frail figure, sunken into the seat, and it was as if he was looking directly into Charlie's soul. His brother was so fragile at this moment, so incredibly vulnerable that Don didn't dare to even touch him.

But he hardly had a choice. "Hey, buddy," he said softly, almost whispering. As if even the sound waves could make Charlie's unstable figure crumble. As gently as he could, he laid his hand on his shoulder, waiting fearfully for his brother's reaction.

Charlie turned his head slowly and it seemed as if he was looking into Don's eyes through a mile long tunnel of emptiness. He was silent.

Don swallowed. "Hey… can you walk? We have to go in there now." He carefully tugged at Charlie's T-shirt and steered him out of the car and into the hospital. Charlie let everything happen to him without showing any kind of reaction.

Later, Don couldn't tell how they'd finally managed to find a doctor to get Charlie's feet cleaned up and stitches into the right one. The doctor even intended to admit Charlie, suspecting some form of shock, but eventually Charlie managed to answer all his questions satisfactorily. So after a short examination, the doctor sent the two of them home, though not without instructing Don what to look out for in case Charlie did indeed have some form of consciousness disturbance.

When they were sitting in the car again, Don wasn't sure whether to be glad that Charlie didn't have to stay in the hospital or not. But in any case he was glad that he'd be able to talk about all this with his father soon.

Don stopped the car in front of the house and when the driver's door fell shut, Charlie slowly started to get out as well. He was just about to get moving when Don stopped him, handing him the crutches they'd given him at the hospital. Charlie took them without a comment and got moving, although not towards the front door.

"Hey, Charlie!" Don gently touched his shoulder trying to turn him around. "Where are you going?"

Charlie didn't even turn around to face him as he mumbled a hardly discernable "garage".

"Should I come with you?" He'd already taken a step into Charlie's direction when he saw his brother shake his head. Both worry and helplessness were growing in Don as he stared after his little brother, watching the garage swallow him up.

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Charlie was still in that other world, that blurry, less real one. Yet, that other world in a strange manner seemed so much more realistic to him than his own helpless efforts to get his life back.

The image of that immobile Don had remained and had not dissolved into the mist of oblivion. Although Charlie was sick as long as he looked at that image from his memory, he was still so immensely glad and relieved that it didn't go away, that there was indeed something from his former life, that there was proof that he'd indeed had a life before. It was true, he had seen that image a couple of times before, but always failed to remember anything more about it. Never had that image been as distinct as now, and never had it remained in his mind for such a long period of time. The only thing that had used to remain was a confusing mix of emotions associated with it.

Deep in concentration, Charlie had been trying to put this image into a context, to give it a history. What had happened before? What after? His thought processes had been so laborious and intense that he had hardly registered what was going on around him. A couple of times, Don's blurry face had appeared before him, once that of a man in a white coat… Charlie hadn't even been sure whether those had been real or just other dream images, but he hadn't cared in the slightest. True, he wasn't even a hundred per cent sure if that image of the immobile Don was indeed taken from reality, for his efforts to remember the surrounding circumstances had so many parallels to an attempt of regaining memories of an almost forgotten dream. However, Charlie clung to the hope that maybe he could find out something about himself this way.

Here, at least, it was quiet and nobody bothered him. His garage had always been the one place he'd been able to think best.

Charlie stopped. Was that… No, it was true. He knew that he'd always liked to come out here to think, he could sense it instinctively. This was some kind of memory, he was starting to remember!

With new determination, he pulled the image of the sleeping Don back in front of his inner eye, morphing it in his mind into the image of that motionless and blood-covered Don. Don had been wearing his FBI jacket… _His face was turned away from him, but the dark hair was distinctly visible. His service weapon was lying loosely in his hand which would never again be able to hold that weapon, neither the weapon nor anything else. The proof for this hypothesis was the dark stain in the jacket, more precisely in the 'F' of the yellow 'FBI'. On the yellow surface, you could also determine that the dark fluid was actually red. And both the position of the spot and the fact that Don wasn't moving and would never move again meant that the bullet had hit him right in the heart._

Charlie shuddered. He knew that this was the truth, that this scenario had actually taken place. And he could still hear the voice that was unfailingly connected to the image, _"This is your fault, Dr. Eppes. You've killed your own brother."_


	15. Who Am I - And If So, How Many?

**Disclaimer:** The title of this chapter is the translation of a book for popular philosophy written by Richard David Precht, but I thought it kind of fit here. For all the other rights I don't have, I refer you to the disclaimer in chapter 1.

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15\. Who Am I – And If So, How Many?

Charlie abruptly freed himself from the mess his memories created and stood. He instantly flinched and grimaced with pain. His foot. Something was wrong with his foot. Charlie looked down, saw the bandage and dimly remembered the man in his white coat. A bit confused, his gaze flew through the garage in search for further clues until they found the crutches. Without hesitation Charlie grabbed them, trying to get back to the house as fast as he could. He had to get to Don, it was important, he had to get to Don…

Alan and he were sitting at the dining room table. Their heads were bent down slightly and they were obviously conversing very earnestly. When Charlie stepped through the door, they both turned to face him. "Charlie! There you are! How's the foot?"

Charlie didn't answer his father's question. Instead, he asked one himself and directed it at the third man in the room. "Who are you?"

Don was speechless. What on earth was going on with Charlie? Why was his condition suddenly deteriorating? "I'm Don," he replied, making sure to talk slowly and distinctly, and maybe it was this effort that caused his voice to tremble. "I'm your brother. We're –"

But Charlie wouldn't let him finish. "I know who Don is! I want to know who _you_ are!"

Alan and Don exchanged highly confused glances. "Charlie, what's going on? Are you feeling okay?" Alan worriedly looked his son over.

"I'm feeling great… _Dad._ I just wanna know who the man is that pretends to be my brother!"

"But Charlie… What do you mean, 'pretend'? I _am_ your brother, don't you –"

"Can you prove it?" Charlie interrupted him and Don stared at him as if he came from another planet.

To make matters worse, Don was getting impatient now. He was getting sick of walking on eggshells, and he finally wanted to know the reason for Charlie's strange behavior, he wanted everything to get back to the way things had been before. "Prove it how, for G-d's sake? You wanna see my ID or what?"

Charlie was breathing heavily. He hadn't thought of that. He didn't have any proof. Worse, he couldn't even think of a _method_ how he could prove to this man that there was no way he could be Don. Usually, he might have tried to convict him by asking him questions only the two of them knew the answer to. But the fact that Charlie wouldn't be able to verify Don's answers or even to find appropriate questions inhibited him from following through with his beautiful plan.

The panic came back with a vengeance. Had he made a mistake? Yes, there was no doubt about it. Either this was, for some incomprehensible reason, really Don, or he had just shown them his hand. In any case, Don and Alan would certainly be pissed now. Either because Charlie had verbally attacked his brother for no reason or because Charlie had realized that they were playing fast and loose with him. And if they were really lying to him… No, no, that couldn't be, he had to get away from here, he had to escape… But where should he go? He was at their mercy, he knew no one else, but he had to be alone, he had to think…

Charlie swallowed and looked around, panicked, until the stairs presented themselves as a means of escape to him. "I'm tired, I'm going to bed," he claimed hastily. It was only the afternoon and the two of them probably wouldn't believe him, but he didn't care, he had to get away. He grabbed his crutches and hobbled towards the stairs. Then, however, he stopped, let his gaze wander upstairs, back to the crutches and then to his foot. How on earth was he supposed to get up there?

"Need some help?"

Charlie flinched violently and his head jerked around when he heard Alan's voice so close to his ear. He was just trying to regulate his breathing again when, from the other side, he heard Don's voice. However, it wasn't the voice he'd gotten to know during the past few days. The voice of this new Don was matter-of-fact, cool and strangely void of emotion. Still calm, but not gentle anymore.

"Come on," said the voice that didn't seem to tolerate any dissent. "We'll help you."

"No!" Charlie lost his balance when he tried to evade Don's grip. He stumbled against the wall and it was only thanks to Alan that he didn't go down. Charlie let himself lower on the second step and first of all tried to regain his breath. "No," he then repeated. "I can do this on my own. You can go back to the dining room table or… whatever." _Just leave me alone,_ he silently added.

The two of them, however, remained standing there before him, obviously not willing to change that. In order to prove to them that he could really do this on his own, Charlie, still sitting down with his back to the remaining stairs, pressed himself one step upwards. And another one. And another one. The other two didn't try to hold him back or to follow him, about which Charlie was immensely relieved. A bit exhausted, he eventually reached the top and even managed to hop into his room. He instantly decided that he wouldn't go to the bathroom and then to bed for good until he was reasonably certain that Alan and Don would be no longer standing at the bottom of the stairs.

* * *

Cold sweat was covering Charlie's forehead, but his breathing slowly calmed down. He was lying in his bed and staring at the ceiling. Everything was spinning. He still wasn't sure what to believe. Was that Don down there in the living room his brother? But he had seen it, he was _certain_ , he knew that he hadn't imagined that scenario, that it had actually happened.

The images started to get more vivid again, taking his breath once more: the blood, Don's motionless body on the naked floor, the cold walls around him that wouldn't let him go anywhere, and the cruel voice: _You've killed your own brother, you've killed your own brother, you've killed your own brother…_

Overwhelmed with despair, Charlie violently shook his head. No, no, no, that wasn't possible! That couldn't be, Don couldn't be dead, he couldn't have killed his brother…

But… Charlie held his breath, checking his train of thoughts. But it was true. He had a brother. Or had once had one. He remembered now, there had been a brother in his life, Don, he'd actually been his brother, that was true, Don hadn't lied to him, he'd been his brother. And Charlie had killed him. But that couldn't be, it just couldn't, he could never live with that, it couldn't be…

But it _really_ couldn't be. Don was there, he was just downstairs, he was alive, but it was incomprehensible, there was no doubt about Charlie's guilt, he had killed him…

Everything was just so confusing. He had seen Don, he had known that he was dead, that it was his fault, that he had killed him, and suddenly Don had been back, very much alive. That wasn't possible, right? He was losing his mind, oh G-d, he was losing his mind… Don was alive, and yet he had killed him…

And if not?

After all, his mind wasn't the safest place to store memories right now. He had forgotten so much, there were so many things he couldn't remember. Wasn't it possible that he remembered things that hadn't happened in the first place? That his mind was just making those things up to compensate for the lack of true memories, that it just created images so that he had something, _anything_ that he could cling to, that belonged to him?

He didn't know.

What was true? The things the people around him were telling him or the things he remembered himself? Was his brother alive or was he dead? Was that man downstairs Don or someone else? Was he himself Charlie or a whole other person?

He didn't know.

He just didn't know. It could be this way or completely different, it could be the way the other people kept telling him it was or the way his mind told him, he didn't know, he couldn't find a way to determine the truth. Where did he come from? Who was he? What did he want?

And who would be able to answer those questions for him?

He didn't know, he just didn't know whom he could trust anymore. One moment he thought everything would eventually come back to normal, and the next moment his world was shattered by a sledgehammer.

Was Don dead? Or not? Was he to blame? Or not? Was everything a lie? Or not?

Was he losing his mind?

Maybe he'd already lost it. Maybe he already was insane, maybe that was why his mind was playing those tricks on him. And if he was insane, then he wouldn't be able to determine anymore whether he was insane or not, right? Maybe his mind had lost the ability to discern things, maybe he'd never again know what was really happening and what wasn't, for his entire life, maybe the error was with _him_ , maybe he'd gone crazy…

But even then, he couldn't know whether the things the others told him were the truth. Or could he? Could he trust them, and he was just being paranoid? Was he seeing lies and betrayal where there were none? Was he really going insane?

Or was he insane already?

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Alan and Don had decided to leave Charlie alone for the rest of the day. It had probably just been a bit much for him. The unfamiliar surroundings ( _unfamiliar?!_ , Don thought. _He lives here!_ ), all the unfamiliar people ( _his family and friends, damn it!_ ) and a new routine of which Don didn't know if they would ever be able to fit it in an everyday life.

But they had to. Or at least Don had to get back to _his_ routine and everyday life, for he couldn't take time off forever. He was still on leave for the remainder of the week – the request for some time off that he'd submitted on short notice after the arrival of the fax had surprisingly been approved – but he wouldn't be able to prolong his absence. After all: how could he leave his team alone any longer?

As if they were mind-reading soul-mates, the doorbell rang and Don's co-workers were standing on their porch. They seemed very agitated, had their eyes widened and used them to glance behind Don in the living room as if they were looking for something.

"Is it really true?" David asked, completely forgetting his manners.

Don was more thoughtful. "Hey, guys," he said and smiled at David, Colby and Megan. It wasn't hard for him to imagine why they were here, and it gave him a warm feeling inside. "Don't you wanna come in first?"

"Is it true now?" Megan wouldn't let them get distracted. It was just so unbelievable, so… "Charlie –?"

"He's alive," Don interrupted her, and the warm feeling spread even further.

"How the hell…" Colby started his stunned question, though seemed unable to finish it.

"Long story. But how did you know?"

"Larry. He just told me," Megan explained. "He thought we already knew, that you would have told us." Her tone had become slightly accusing. When Don had taken some days off after getting that fax, she had thought that he – understandably – just needed some time for himself. She hadn't even known that he and Alan had flown to that clinic. And she hadn't known what to think when Larry had told her that Charlie was miraculously still alive.

"We thought Larry had gone crazy," one still confused and bewildered David verbalized Megan's thoughts.

"As in even more crazy than usual."

"Hey!" Megan admonished Colby only half-jokingly.

David ignored his co-workers' squabbling and in fact didn't even seem to have heard them. "When… I mean, how…"

"Where is he?" his partner interrupted him, having become more serious again. "Can we see him?"

The smile vanished from Don's face. "I don't know, guys. He's a bit… rattled today. Besides, he lay down for a nap a while ago." He was confronted with three disappointed faces, but they wouldn't be able to change his mind. He wasn't going to render Charlie more agitated than he already was.

"But he's here? He's in this house?" David made sure once more. You could easily tell that all three of them still had a hard time believing it. Charlie was alive and right here under this roof after he'd been dead for half a year?

"Yeah, he's here. And he seems to be fine, physically." _Just mentally…_

Megan was good at her job as a psycho-analyst. Sometimes, it seemed like it wasn't just her job, but more like some sort of calling. Sometimes, just every now and then, she actually seemed to be able to read minds. This was one of those now and thens. She couldn't miss the fact that Don was beaming with inner joy even though he remained calm on the outside, but neither could she miss his worry. "I'm sure he'll recover with time. And you know, if any of you need me, just give me a call." A smile crept on her lips and some moisture into her eyes. "After all, he's been dead and recovered physically, so everything else should be manageable."

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The next morning, Charlie was still nauseous. And still, the room was spinning, still he didn't know what was true, or who he was.

At the same time, Charlie started to seriously think about the positive aspects of amnesia. If he hadn't been able to remember the previous day, he wouldn't have had any problem going downstairs. This way, however…

But before one of them could and had to come up to get him, Charlie got himself out of bed and down the stairs. Here, finally, he had his crutches back, but he didn't get far with them. As soon as he'd taken them up, he jerked back when he saw the still set-in-stone-like figures of Alan and Don sitting at the breakfast table.

"Good morning, Charlie," Alan greeted him. He sounded serious. That couldn't mean anything good for him. "Sit down. We have to talk."

With a jolt, Charlie was filled with fear. He'd known this would happen. He'd done something wrong. Now he'd blown it. He'd been right, he was getting paranoid. And it was obvious that these two men didn't want a mad-man under their roof, they would cast him out and then he'd be lost, there would be no way for him to escape insanity, he'd be lost and would forever wander through this world on his own and left alone…

"I'm… I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…" But making excuses was insufficient, he knew it. But maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to prevent the catastrophe by begging. "Please, just let me stay here until I've found a place of my own, _please._ You don't have to care for me, it's just until I find somewhere else to stay. You –"

"Charlie –" Alan interrupted him, so Charlie trimmed back his requests even further.

"Just until tonight! Then I'll be gone, I promise, just –"

"Charlie! Stop it, we don't want to kick you out."

With that, Charlie was put to silence long enough so that even Don found the courage to say something. "This is your house in case you've forgotten." Don grimaced slightly when his own word 'forgotten' came to his ear. "If you want to be alone, Dad and I can move out, but you stay here."

Don's gaze seemed to be aimed at penetrating Charlie. His eyes were fixed on his brother and his face was still void of emotion since yesterday, since his brother had pushed him away, but Don could hardly believe that the other two couldn't hear at what crazy speed his heart was beating. What if Charlie accepted the offer? What if he really didn't want them with him anymore?

His father seemed to worry about the same thing, so when Charlie didn't reply at once, he tried to take the pressure off him and thereby reduce the risk that Charlie would indeed kick them out. "You don't have to decide that now, Charlie. Anyway, that's not what we meant to talk to you about."

Charlie still seemed suspicious. "So what _do_ you want to talk about?"

Alan sighed heavily. So one problem was adjourned for the time being. Maybe until it would have been solved by itself, if they were lucky. One problem to go. "Do you remember Doctor Bradford?"

Charlie rummaged though his misty memories and finally shook his head. "Sorry."

"Never mind," Alan assured him hastily. "He's Don's psychotherapist. He has an appointment with him tomorrow anyway, and we thought…" He hesitated, half hoping that Don might end his suggestion, but he wouldn't do him that favor. "We thought you could go to him together."

Alan's cautious words couldn't conceal their meaning from Charlie or merely sugarcoat it. "You think I'm crazy?"

"Do you think _I'm_ crazy?"

Charlie's head jerked towards Don. He had spoken in a quiet and controlled manner, and his behavior and his voice and his posture all told Charlie that something wasn't right with his big brother. For a moment, the two dark pairs of eyes stared into each other, both appraising, both insecure despite their gaze's intensity, both with this underlying sadness.

Charlie swallowed. If Don went there regularly as well, sending him to that doctor didn't necessarily mean anything, right? "Okay. Okay, we can go there." It was only when he had uttered the words that he slowly came to realize what he'd assented to, but it was too late now. He'd already decided to pull the moment of truth closer, the moment when it would become clear whether or not he would ever be able to become the man again he really was.


	16. First Aid

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1

* * *

16\. First Aid

Charlie knew that it had been a mistake. However, he just hadn't found it in his power to refuse Alan's and Don's request. Now he wished he would have done it. He felt absolutely out of place here. And he felt like he was being watched. There were curious glances landing on him from everyone, from the secretary, from a woman who seemed to be waiting for the doctor's current patient to finish his session, and from Don. Their eyes seemed to be trying to penetrate him, to read his mind; they seemed to be trying to find out who he was.

As was he.

Charlie tried to dissipate his paranoid thoughts. He suspected that he was only imagining and overdrawing most of it because he was nervous about his imminent session with the psychotherapist. This man would also try to read his mind, and he would probably be more successful than the three people outside his office. And if he managed to read his mind, he probably wouldn't miss the images that Charlie, until now, had successfully kept hidden inside him, the images that nourished his nightmares and filled him with fear and a strangely indistinct sensation of threat that made it impossible for him to talk about it.

A young man emerged from the room, apparently the significant other of the woman in the waiting area. They exchanged some hushed words, nodded a shyly smiling greeting to the secretary and the two brothers and left the doctor's office. About five minutes later, the phone rang. The secretary answered and then told the two men that the doctor was now ready to see them.

Charlie swallowed. When he stood, he thought for a moment that his knees were about to buckle. He didn't want to go in there, he didn't want to see all those images again and he most definitely didn't want to talk about those images with strangers. And at that moment, all people were strangers to him, at least all people in California.

"So we actually Mr. Eppes times two here today! Good morning, please take a seat and help yourselves." He indicated the leather couch and the armchairs that stood around a small table with a water carafe and some glasses.

Don, who usually sat in the armchair opposite Bradford's, didn't hesitate to choose the couch this time; after all, he wasn't alone today, Charlie was with him. His brother, however, seemed to have his own plans, for instead of taking a seat next to Don, he sat down on the armchair that usually Don occupied.

Don looked at his brother. He wasn't just surprised about his behavior, he was a little hurt. Being around Charlie was such an emotional roller-coaster these days… When Charlie had agreed to letting Don go with him to this session, Don had hoped that things between them had gotten back to some normalcy after Charlie's shocking accusation that he wasn't his brother. But now he wasn't so sure. Why was Charlie distancing himself from him? Did he still not trust him? Or did he just need some space for the time being? Or had he just sat down anywhere and nothing of this held any deeper meaning?

He tried to make eye-contact with him, but Charlie – whether it was by chance or by design, Don couldn't tell – evaded his gaze. The psychotherapist noticed that look, making a mental note concerning Don's own therapy, but today would be about Charlie.

"It's really good to see you again, Charlie." Bradford's words were sincere, and not only because his attempts to help Don cope with his brother's death hadn't been very successful.

Charlie first gave the doctor, then Don and then again the doctor a nervous glance. "I'm sorry, but I don't –"

"You don't remember me, of course," Bradford helped him out. "That is why you're here, among other things, right? So let me ask you, how are the two of you doing?"

"Fine," they both said, and yet their answers differed a lot from each other. Don had uttered the words with a slight smile on his face, glancing at Charlie, while the younger Eppes still seemed tense and displayed all signs that he was uncomfortable with the situation.

Bradford hadn't missed that. "Is it alright with you, Charlie, if your brother is present during the session? Or would you prefer him to wait outside?"

Charlie gave Don another glance before turning towards the psychiatrist. "I'm…" Out of the corners of his eyes, he could see Don frown. He didn't know what he wanted. Right now, what he wanted most was to go home. But even if he didn't want Don to stay, could he say that? Don was his brother, after all. And considering everything he'd learned until now, they seemed to get along quite well and to be fairly close. He couldn't just send him away, right? After all, Don was the one who'd brought him here in the first place. "No… of course he can stay," he finally replied with more conviction in his voice than he actually felt.

Bradford gave him a sharp, appraising look, but then nodded. "Alright. But keep in mind that you're always free to revoke that decision. Don will understand that."

Don wasn't sure if he'd heard right. Was the psychiatrist really that presumptuous? 'Don will understand that' – why did he say that? Why was he encouraging Charlie to send him away? That was _so_ not going to happen! Don wasn't going to leave his brother alone, that was certain. Now even more certain than before.

"Alright, Charlie – are you okay with me calling you Charlie?" A short nod and Dr. Bradford continued. "Very well, then. So, how are you? And please, don't say 'fine' again."

Curious how such a simple question could make his world so complicated, Charlie thought to himself. He felt – no, not really taken by surprise by that question, more like being led into a trap. What was he supposed to say? The simple 'fine' from before wouldn't be enough for the doctor anymore. So it was necessary that he really thought about how he was feeling. Tense. He didn't have to think hard to know that. Unwell. Watched. Lost. Cramped. Empty.

But could he really say that? If Don heard –

"Come on, Charlie, say it plain, you can say anything you want. Your brother isn't on duty right now. Nothing of what you say can be used against you."

Bradford smiled and Charlie could sense that the uncomfortably cool layer that was surrounding him got a few cracks, and the trace of a smile appeared on his face.

"I still feel… a bit out of place," Charlie finally admitted. He was reasonably sure that such an answer wouldn't hurt Don.

"Where and how?"

Charlie gave Don another glance, swallowed and answered, "Everywhere. I just… I don't know where I belong. And I don't know where I came from or who I am and… There are people everywhere who know me but I don't remember them."

Don's caution and his suspicion melt a bit away from him, making way to a certain fascination while he listened to Bradford's calm voice and Charlie's hardly less calm answers. The psychiatrist – who really couldn't be said to be known for his bedside manner – somehow actually managed not only to have a decent conversation with his brother, but even to ask really relevant and sensitive questions without Charlie feeling more uncomfortable than he already was.

"And what was it like in the clinic you were before?"

"Different. I didn't know anybody there as well, but nobody knew me either. Nobody knew anything about me."

"Was that better?"

Don held his breath. Charlie noticed, but that didn't make it easier for him to determine what to say. An 'of course not' had been on the tip of his tongue, but all of a sudden, it had vanished. Of course he was glad that he finally knew his identity. On the other hand, it didn't elude him that it hadn't been he himself who'd found that identity, but other people, people that were strangers to him. They knew him and had expectations of him, of which he didn't know many and of which he most certainly didn't know whether or not he would be able to meet them.

But he couldn't say that of course. One more side-glance at his overly tense brother left no doubt about that. "Of course not." He'd found the words again although they had hidden in his mind, unwilling to come forward. "I'm glad to finally know who I am."

Even in his own ears, the words sounded stilted and thus not honest, and it was hopeless to think that the psychiatrist wouldn't notice. Bradford sighed. "Charlie. You have to reply honestly. Otherwise these sessions won't help you. We can ask Don to leave the room if that makes you feel better, that's not a problem at all. But in any case you need to tell me what's really going on inside you."

Charlie didn't answer, but just stared at the gray carpet at his feet. Dr. Bradford was probably right, Charlie would have to confide in him if he wanted him to help him. There probably wasn't any other way. The only question was whether he wanted Don to stay or to leave. On the one hand, his presence made him feel uncomfortable, on the other hand… on the other hand Don, since he'd known him – or rather, since he'd known him and also remembered that relationship – had always showed him his affection. He had helped him, had been there for him and had become a confidant. Don didn't even deserve to stay, he also gave Charlie a feeling of security and comfort that he couldn't find anywhere else. So he'd probably be even more tense if Don weren't present. At least Charlie managed to tell himself that.

"Okay. But Don stays," he therefore said. He didn't look at Don, but he could sense him take in a deep breath, and had the liberating feeling that finally, he'd done something right.

"Fair enough. Now that that's dealt with, let's go back to my first question, Charlie: how are you doing?"

This time, Charlie actually thought about the question and not about how the others might react to his answer. "I don't know," he said eventually, and it was true. On the one hand, he was glad to finally have an identity, on the other hand he fervently wished to get his memory back. Everything put together, he was highly confused.

"He sleeps very badly," Don interjected as if to justify his presence. Charlie gave him the shortest of all glances before he turned his attention back to Bradford. It was true, he wasn't that happy to be patronized by Don once again, but on the other hand he was thankful that the conversation got finally going. Besides, Don was right. His nights really were a nightmare, or rather a whole bunch of them.

Dr. Bradford made a short note in his file and then looked up at his patient. "Do you have nightmares?"

Charlie reddened. "I don't know. Every now and then, yeah."

"Did you have them in the clinic as well or did they only start recently?"

"They started in the clinic."

"What are they about?"

"Nothing in particular. I mean, they're just nightmares. It's not like they're actually bad or something. It's not like they are real, after all."

Bradford sighed, but somehow he managed to keep his voice void of impatience. "Charlie, I thought we agreed that you'd better be frank with me. I'm sure you know that in our dreams, we often process experiences that we block out during daytime. And since your amnesia seems to be based on such a form of blocking things out, your nightmares might very well give us some indication of how the gaps in your memory are to be filled. And I have to contradict you about another point as well: maybe the events depicted in your nightmares aren't real and haven't happened in real live, but the nightmares themselves _are_ real. So you should tell me about them."

Charlie hesitated briefly, but he realized that Bradford was right. "There are a number of different nightmares," he began, still hesitantly. "There's one that keeps coming back…"

"What about?"

Charlie halted. He hadn't intended to mention that particular nightmare, the worst of all, the figure on the floor, the blood, the cold feeling in his chest and always that voice: _You've killed your own –_

"Charlie? Are you alright?" Bradford didn't wait for an answer, but only for Charlie to look back at him. "What is that nightmare about?"

"I'm sorry, I'm…" Charlie mumbled, trying fervently to get the voice and the images out of his head and to remember other dream images. "I'm – I mean in the dream – I'm in… in some kind of big exercise wheel like the ones you get for hamsters. Everything is gray and metallic and barred… And I'm running and running, but the wheel keeps turning and I can't move on, and I can't get out."

"Why not? Is there someone to prevent you from doing so?"

"I'm – I don't know. No. I just can't. I… I can't even try. But I know it wouldn't work."

Bradford nodded, made some further notes, closed the file in his lap and then turned towards his patient. "This is a classic image of being in captivity, Charlie. It seems likely that before your amnesia, you've been held captive against your will. Judging from the first impression I got today, I'd say that you felt helpless and couldn't find a way out, that you felt desperate. Of course I can be wrong, and I'm quite aware that you might not find my deductions very helpful right now, but I have to tell you, Charlie, that I think we got off to a good start."

Charlie nodded and the three men stood. Bradford had managed to make clear – without becoming impolite – that today's session had come to an end. "Please make an appointment with my secretary, tomorrow if she can somehow arrange that. See you soon, then."

They shook his hand, thanked him and left the treatment room. As the door fell shut behind them, Don noticed the tension leave his brother's body, the shoulders slumping a bit. Even if they weren't slumped already, they would have been as soon as Don laid his arm around them. The easy brotherly gesture felt incredibly good to him. He'd noticed that since Charlie's return, he'd been trying to make physical contact much more often than before his disappearance, as if he was trying to make up for the lost occasions of the past or as if he just wanted to make sure that Charlie wasn't a ghost.

"Hey, you did really good in there," he said. His voice sounded a bit too enthusiastic. His mind was still occupied with Bradford's last words. Of course, they were only a confirmation of what Don had already been suspecting, but still… Charlie had, with all probability, been held against his will. And judging from the session he'd just witnessed, what he'd experienced during his captivity and afterwards was still preying on Charlie's mind.

Don just hoped that Bradford would be able to help him. Charlie had to get back to normal, he just had to…

Out of the corners of his eyes, Don watched him as well as he could. Based on the expression on Charlie's face, he couldn't determine what his brother was thinking about the session, but at least he looked a bit more composed than before the appointment. Calmer, more relaxed. The difference wasn't much, but at least it made Don think of the Charlie of his memories, the Charlie sparkling with frenetic energy, the Charlie he wanted to have back. And not the distraught and insane –

Don's train of thoughts stopped. He swallowed. But that couldn't reverse the words in his head or delete them. Insane. In his thoughts, he'd just described his brother as 'insane'.

How could he?

The worst thing was that, thinking about it objectively, he came to the same conclusion. Charlie wasn't behaving normally. Yesterday, that thing with the glass. And that look in his eyes… And what he'd said to Don…

Don pressed his brother's shoulders a bit more tightly. _I just wanna know who the man is that pretends to be my brother…_ Don hadn't been able to believe what he'd heard, hadn't _wanted_ to believe. It had hurt, it had hurt so much to hear Charlie utter those words as if he were a stranger. And it hurt him just as badly that Charlie seemed to be well on the way to lose his mind.

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Charlie felt strange, but after all, that seemed to have become his usual state. However, it was another kind of strange now, a bit less disconcerting, less disturbing. Contrary to his assumptions and his fears, he felt better after talking to the psychotherapist and not worse. Even talking about his nightmares hadn't been as bad as he thought it would be. No, everything considered it had even been liberating. Dr. Bradford had listened to him and talked to him, as if he were a normal person, and at some point, Charlie hadn't even been bothered by Don's presence anymore. He'd felt at ease, he realized now.

But the thing that relieved him most was the fact that Bradford apparently didn't consider him crazy. For one, he'd treated him like a normal person, and two, Charlie's symptoms seemed to be perfectly normal as well. Or at least they apparently hadn't surprised the psychotherapist in the slightest. Bradford had even presented the prospect of everything coming back to normal, had said that they'd got off to a good start…

During his next session, Charlie would be even more open and honest than he'd been today. He wouldn't keep quiet about anything anymore… or at least not about a lot of things. Yes, he understood now that Dr. Bradford could help him, and Charlie was almost possessed with the desire to accept his help as soon as possible and get his life back.

Charlie could hardly wait to go back to Bradford.


	17. Home Alone

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1  
 **A/N:** Thanks for your reviews! Unfortunately, Dr. Bradford wasn't free the next day, so we'll have to wait until chapter 19 for him to make a re-appearance. (I know, the story is slow-going, but we'll get there.) And whether this chapter is a heart tugger? Well, I'll let you be the judges of that :)

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17\. Home Alone

Only one hour after their return from the session with Dr. Bradford, it had been time for Alan to leave for Chicago. He had continued to ponder the question whether he could really leave his sons alone, especially considering Charlie's most recent mental state. Of course he'd promised his sister – but if his son was apparently losing his mind, didn't that come first?

Granted, Don had reminded him that he was still there, and had assured him he would take good care of Charlie and see to it that he'd keep his appointments with the psychotherapist, but still Alan had a bad feeling about leaving. What if something happened? If his sons needed his help and he'd be thousands of miles away from them, unreachable and completely useless?

But almost just as unsettling was the idea that Don might be right. Maybe the two of them really wouldn't need him. They were both adults, after all. What if Charlie realized that he could very well do without his father, that he didn't need him? Since he couldn't remember him, he'd break loose of him and start a new life. Alan would lose him a second time.

No, he was more than uncomfortable with this whole situation. But he'd promised his sister and she needed him. And just as Don had said – he'd be back within a few days.

He could only hope that everything would be still the same upon his return.

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Don closed the front door behind the two of them and took off his jacket, always keeping an eye on Charlie. They'd gone all three to the airport, though they'd said good-bye to their father outside the airport building since they hadn't wanted to confront Charlie with the crowds of people again. The last flight from Nebraska home had been enough.

"Okay… so what're we gonna do tonight?" Don thought it was bizarre. Although he was trying to keep his tone casual, it seemed to him as if he were talking to a stranger. Keeping up an atmosphere of normalcy had become somewhat harder without their father being around.

Charlie shrugged. "If you want, you can go out or something. You don't have to always keep me company. I'm sure you've got better things to do."

Don shook his head. "No, I don't," he replied easily while and went to the fridge to get himself a beer. "Besides, Dad would probably kill me if I left you alone."

Charlie smiled hesitantly, as if he wasn't sure whether Don had really made a joke or if he actually felt forced to keep him company for their father's sake.

Don took a sip from his beer, wondering whether he should suggest to his brother to invite Larry or Amita over. He decided against it. He thought that after everything that had happened so far, he had the right to spend a little time alone with his brother.

The problem was that he couldn't find a way to start a conversation, not knowing how to spend this time together, and thus some seconds of uncomfortable silence passed.

"So what's in that box?" Charlie eventually asked, pointing towards a cardboard box sitting in the corner of the room. It seemed to Don as if that question had been preying on his mind for some time now and he just hadn't dared to ask. And that although he couldn't have known what significance that box bore.

"Take a look," Don replied curtly, trying not to show that he was filled with memories overflowing with grief. When his brother hesitated, he went on, "It's your personal belongings, the ones you had with you on your mission. They sent them to us after they informed us about your… your death. We took a look at them months ago, but somehow we still haven't managed to sort them through properly."

Don couldn't suppress the swallowing reflex even though he knew that his brother would notice. Eventually, Charlie's eyes went back to the cardboard box, and after some moments of hesitation, he went over and opened it.

Don watched him. While his brother explored his old life piece for piece, the confusion came back to him. Until now, he hadn't thought about it. At first, Charlie had been dead and thus everything else had been meaningless. Then, Charlie had re-entered their lives and pushed all other thoughts aside. Now, however, the thoughts were back, demanding answers: Why had Charlie been declared dead? He was obviously alive; how could that have happened? Had something gone wrong during the identification process? How had they been able to make a mistake in such a matter? And who was the body that had to have existed and whose ashes were now buried in Charlie's place? Someone out there had to be considered missing although he'd been dead for half a year now. But who? And how could they have mistaken him for Charlie?

His confusion turned to anger. What on earth was that institution thinking, always keeping itself so mysteriously in the dark? How could they have claimed to have identified Charlie beyond a doubt? Had they just made a mistake, or had they been insecure and just claimed something they hadn't really had evidence for? But how could they have declared him dead without being a hundred per cent sure? G-d, if they hadn't declared him dead, everything would have been so much simpler, they would have found him, would have been able to help him so much sooner! They would just have checked the missing persons' reports when Charlie had turned up in Nebraska last November, and there, he would have been back with them and they would have been spared half a year of grief. And what about the family of the man who had actually died? They were still waiting for answers, getting none; maybe they were still clinging to a hope that could never be fulfilled. Don knew how that felt, not knowing what was going on. How could this institution do that to these people? And anyway, how could they have let _any_ of this happen? Did they even care that Charlie was still alive? Did they care at all about clearing this matter up? Or did they intend to leave the dead man's family in the dark forever anyway?

His anger turned to determination. If that institution didn't do anything, then at least he would act. As soon as Charlie was better, he'd take care of this affair. He would finally identify that institution and put them to justice for the mistakes they'd committed. He would find out the dead man's identity and notify his family. That was the least he could do to give something in return for having gotten his brother back. Yes, he would do what this damn, inhuman institution had failed to do. He would investigate and keep no stone unturned. As soon as Charlie was better.

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Charlie's eyes fell on the book first. He recognized it. It was a collection of various mathematical papers about certain areas of game theory. He knew its content and remembered packing it before his departure, hoping it would be helpful for the task he'd been facing. He was stopped from checking his memory and leafing through the book by another object that caught his eye and that was lying on top of the book. A necklace.

His gaze was captured by the pendant. He recognized it. He recognized it distinctly. He knew that there had to be memories in his mind concerning this pendant, but he couldn't get to them, there was a barrier, a wall was blocking his sight on them.

But they had to be there, the memories, Charlie knew it. The wall started cracking. Small pieces were crumbling away. And through the cracks, Charlie was pulled through it, slowly, than faster and faster, a whirl in the cyclone of his memories… Amita had given him that necklace, she'd given it to him before his journey, as some sort of talisman, and then…

 _He was lying curled up on his bed. He was cold. Around him, there was absolute darkness, but he kept his eyes tightly shut. He didn't want to see the darkness._

 _The more he had to rely on his other senses, and the more important became the pendant underneath his fingertips. They were rubbing over the brightly polished wood. Both the wood and the leather strap the pendant was attached to had to have turned dark from his sweaty hands, but he didn't see that anyway._

 _He ran his fingers over it, made sure that the top was still safely locking up its content. He didn't dare to open it, fearing that the small paper with the magic square could get lost. True, he knew enough numbers of it by heart to reconstruct it without effort, but he couldn't lose this piece of paper on top of everything else, it had become one of the last remnants of his former life._

 _With a start, he forbade himself to think like that. They would find him. Don would be looking for him and he wouldn't give up and all their despicable misdoings would come out and everything would be fine._

 _Amita had said that this numeric bauble was supposed to protect him. It did. It prevented him from going mad. It connected him with all the ones who were dear to him and who wouldn't just forget about him. He knew that he wasn't alone, he knew that there was a life outside his prison, he knew that they had to be looking for him. He'd told them he'd come back some time during the weekend. He hadn't. And today had to be Tuesday. They must have realized that something was wrong. He hadn't called either, after all. His last conversations with them had been a week ago today, with Amita and his Dad. He'd talked to them only for a short time, just like any other day. Every day, he had granted himself only a couple of minutes to call home, not more. For the rest of the day, he'd been working – after all, he'd wanted to finish this assignment as soon as possible to go back home. When he'd been too tired to go on working, he'd gone to bed, and when he'd woken up, he'd gone right back to work. Even while eating he usually hadn't stopped, he'd had his meals on the sideline. He'd made good time and had been confident to be able to return home soon. Until past Wednesday._

The wall came down on Charlie and jolted him back to the present time. He desperately tried to fight his way back to the other side, but it was futile, he couldn't get through. The wall had buried him underneath it, and at this moment, he didn't have the strength to get back to the surface. But he knew that on that particular Wednesday in October, something must have happened, he knew it. That day had to be the day he'd disappeared. But what was it that had happened?

"Charlie?"

Charlie flinched violently when he heard Don's voice directly next to his ear and, at the same time, registered the hand on his upper arm. "You okay?"

Charlie swallowed and nodded. "Yeah. Sure."

That wasn't entirely true, Don discerned. His brother still seemed… disturbed. A bit distracted and somewhere else with his thoughts. And even though Don knew where Charlie had just been with his thoughts, he longed to know the location.

He hesitated and had to clear his throat before he was able to ask, "What have you been thinking about?"

Charlie didn't answer. But Don wasn't deterred. "You remembered your… captivity?"

Charlie still didn't look at him, but continued staring, closely past the necklace in his hands, into emptiness. "I think so. I'm not sure," he finally said after a while.

Don was strongly tempted to ask further questions, but he refrained himself. He thought he could read in the concentrated look in Charlie's eyes that his brother was about to say something else. He wasn't mistaken. "I… I feel like someone just pressed my brain through a sieve." For a few seconds, Charlie was silent, before he continued in a much more casual tone, reminding Don of his witty math lectures, "And considering that about 90 per cent of our brain mass consists of water, you can imagine what remains in the end."

Don laughed, he couldn't help it. This comment sounded so like Charlie, like the old Charlie he'd already thought he'd lost, that the situation was immediately filled with a relieving sense of home and familiarity. However, Don didn't miss that after this short period of thawing, Charlie had already fallen back into the chaos of his own mind. The concentrated look was still there – had it even become more intense? – and Don couldn't shake the feeling that maybe, Charlie's liberating openness had only been an attempt to keep him from asking further questions.

In vain, of course. "You remember something?"

Again, some seconds passed before Charlie showed some reaction to Don's words. First, he freed his gaze from the emptiness, then his hands from the necklace and finally himself from Don. "I'm tired now. Good night."

Don stared after him. When Charlie had disappeared upstairs, he took up the pendant, twisting it in his fingers. He didn't know what the deal was with this thing, but he remembered dimly Amita's reaction. Geez, she'd been crying for an hour when she'd seen that necklace, it had to hold _some_ significance. But Don didn't even recognize that thing. When he'd seen it in Amita's hands the first time, all those months ago, he'd initially thought that agency had made some sort of mistake. Amita's reaction had proven him wrong. What had remained was the unsettling feeling that he obviously hadn't known his brother as well as he'd thought. For a necklace was something he should have noticed on him, right? Even if he didn't wear it, it was obviously important enough to him that he'd taken it with him on his mission. Don, however, had never noticed that necklace before. Maybe, if he had given more attention to Charlie, maybe all this wouldn't have happened and everything would be the way it had been before…

Not for the first time since Charlie's disappearance, those musings kept Don company during the night, relinquishing their hold not even in his dreams.

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Alan was kneeling on the soil. The sun was setting and the three black figures cast their long, black shadows on the grass. It was eerily quiet. Not even the birds were chirping. Alan was hiding his face beneath his hands. Don knew it was wet with tears and he didn't want to see it, but Alan wouldn't do him that favor. He took his hands off his face and turned around, craning his neck so that he could look up to his eldest son from his kneeling position.

"Why, Don?" he asked with accusation evident in his voice. "Why didn't you do something to prevent it? Why didn't you protect him?"

Don wanted to answer, wanted to justify himself, but there were no words coming out of his mouth, no justification. His head seemed empty.

"Why, Donnie? Just tell me, why?"

But both the words and the image became blurry, dissolving into a new scenery. He saw Charlie facing him, his eyes glaring; Charlie was furious. "Who are you? I know who Don is, I want to know who _you_ are! You're not my brother! My brother would have never let me down, he would have protected me! I trusted him, I was relying on him and he wasn't there! And it's your fault! It's your fault! Leave me alone and go away! It's your fault! I don't want to see you again! Go away! It's your fault…"

Don jerked upright, breathing heavily. It took him a moment before he could orient himself. Only after a few moments, he realized that he was lying in his bedroom in Charlie's house. Charlie's house. It was _Charlie's_ house again, Charlie wasn't dead, he was back and until now, he hadn't kicked him out – at least if Don wasn't missing anything. All of a sudden, he was more than uncertain if the words from his dream might not be rooted in reality after all…

His breathing accelerated even more before he forced himself to keep his head together and calm down. No, Charlie had never said something of the sort. Don was certain now. And neither had his father. He'd just dreamed all of it; they hadn't really said it.

Which didn't mean that they might not have thought it.

Don inhaled deeply. He had to calm down. He wouldn't be of any help to Charlie if he became a nervous wreck himself. Seeing that he hadn't been able to protect him back then, the least he could do now to fulfill his brotherly duties was making sure that Charlie could become the man again he'd been before.


	18. Silence is Silver

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1

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18\. Silence is Silver

Even though it was spent in silence, Don enjoyed having breakfast with his brother the next morning. Charlie seemed a bit less tense than he'd been during the past few days and every now and then, he even gave Don a quick glance. Maybe that was the start they'd been hoping for, Don thought. Maybe everything was coming back together now.

"What do you want to do today?" Don asked while they were filling the dishwasher.

Charlie shrugged, but kept thinking. He knew that Don was expecting him to give an answer, to show a sign that he cared, that he wasn't indifferent to the things happening to him, and he didn't want to disappoint him. And he _did_ care how his life would go on. He just didn't know his options.

The ringing of the doorbell saved him from continuing his search for an answer. Amita and Larry were standing on the porch, seeming slightly nervous.

"Hi," Amita said when Don opened the door. Her eyes, however, were fixed on Charlie, who was peeking over his brother's shoulder. "We hope we're not intruding."

"Never," Don reassured her. "Come on in."

"We just wanted to stop by and were hoping we're not too early, because – oh my G-d, Charlie!"

Amita had noticed the crutches, and also hadn't missed the bandage around Charlie's foot. Larry, too, kept confused eyes directed at it, while Amita turned back to Don with an accusing look in her eyes. "Why haven't you told us… what happened?"

Don could understand Amita's worry very well even though she was exaggerating. He probably wouldn't have reacted differently himself, especially because he hadn't told them about the incident with the glass on the phone. Both of them had called multiple times during the past two days to ask about Charlie's condition. Because of his mental state, they hadn't been sure whether they'd be welcome or if they would just upset him further. But yesterday evening, Don had told them that Charlie was better. After the session with Bradford, he'd actually calmed down some and even opened up a bit. Nonetheless, Don had decided that Charlie's mental state was enough to keep Amita and Larry worried, so he really hadn't thought it necessary – or wise – to tell them about his foot. They would have just imagined it to be worse than it actually was, just like they were doing now.

"Charlie stepped into some splinters of glass on Monday. He had to get stitches, but everything will heal up nicely, there's no reason to worry."

"I'm fine," Charlie affirmed his brother's words when Amita and Larry wouldn't lose the doubting expression on their faces.

The furrows on Larry's forehead lost some of their depth and he smiled. "You can't imagine, Charles, how often during the past few months I've wished to hear you say that once more."

Charlie reddened, but gave the smile back. Don took it as his cue to make himself scarce. These were Charlie's friends and he had a right to spend some time alone with them.

"I'll be in the kitchen, if you need anything," he informed the three scientists, adding to Charlie, "I'll stay within hearing range," and disappeared with a discretion that didn't come easily to him.

He could hear their voices, but wasn't able to discern their words. However, he could discern their tone, and the intervals between their words spoke for themselves as well: the conversation between the three friends, who used to understand each other perfectly even without words, stumbled on awkwardly. Don didn't know what to think about that. On the one hand, he missed the normalcy and easiness, on the other hand he was relieved that other people had also trouble dealing with his brother and it wasn't just him.

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Even though Charlie was tense throughout the whole time, it still made him feel good to talk with Amita and Larry. It felt good to know that they wanted to be around him, that he was more than just a cumbersome memory from their past.

Since they had lectures to give, they couldn't stay for lunch, which Charlie regretted a bit. On the other hand he was relieved not having to tolerate so many people bustling around him. Sometimes, everything became just too much for him and he just wanted to escape, to get away from everything. He wanted to hide away somewhere and curl up and not come out until he would have understood the world and found a place in it where he felt home. Still, he knew he had to go through this. In order to understand the world, he had to explore it. At least, it was only Don now, and the tension receded a bit. And some of it, only a small fraction, was replaced by a feeling of calm and comfort.

But Charlie knew that he currently couldn't bear any company for long, and thus it was right after lunch – they had heated up some of the lasagna that Alan (his _father_ … he would never get it) had left in the fridge for them – when he asked to go to the garage. Don gave his usual answer: this was Charlie's house, he didn't have to ask permission for anything. For simplicity's sake, Charlie decided not to argue about that point.

In the doorway, Charlie stood, breathing in the scent of chalk dust. He almost had to cough, but he suppressed the reflex. He wouldn't destroy this moment if he could help it, this moment of recollection.

He remembered the scent. He remembered the garage. He remembered the green blackboards. And he felt a bit closer to the home he'd lost.

He was especially fascinated by the theory – _his_ theory – about the mathematical analysis of friendships. He'd stumbled over it right on the day after his arrival and it had become like an idée fixe for him that this friendship matrix might be able to solve one aspect of his problem. One elegant solution to a mathematical expression and – whoosh! – he'd feel better again.

Until now, he hadn't been very successful. He had set his mind on not giving up, but his hope had decreased further and further and the task was becoming increasingly difficult for him: he just had too little data to fill in the variables, and that depressed him.

Still, he liked coming out here, looking at the numbers and letters on the blackboards. The green and the chalk dust had a calming effect on him while at the same time stimulating his mathematical spirit. When he was out here doing math, the real world out there wasn't as unfamiliar, wasn't as bad, and he had a small niche for himself where he could be in the flow and where no-one – not even himself – had any expectations of him.

He picked up a piece of chalk and continued some of the expressions on the board. It gave him a warm feeling to see that the numbers and letters he wrote fit perfectly into the overall picture. True, he didn't know whether he'd wanted to write what he wrote when he had put down the other lines, but at least he remembered dimly having stood here and having done these calculations. It had been a while ago, but he remembered.

There was more. These numbers and letters didn't only remind him of how he'd written them down, they also reminded him of other calculations he'd done. They were there, somewhere in his mind, and Charlie knew that they were important, but they just wouldn't let him look at them, wouldn't let him get closer…

He closed his eyes and leaned against the blackboard, supporting his weight with only his fist. He could see rows of numbers and variables in front of him, but those weren't the expressions from his blackboard, they were the expressions of a past time, of a past life…

 _The numbers before him didn't make sense. They presented him with a result that couldn't be correct. True, he'd been suspicious for some time now, but he would have never expected_ _this_ _. Still, it seemed to be true. The terror cells whose plans, members and structures he had to analyze weren't homogenous. One of the cells stood out against all the others, destroying the pattern. And it was this 'single cell' that substantiated all of Charlie's suspicions._

 _He'd been working on these terror cells for almost four weeks now. His employers were mostly interested in thwarting future terrorist attacks of al-Qaeda in Saudi Arabia, they intended to make the country a more secure and above all a freer place. America's mission._

 _At least that was what they'd told him. Charlie had been wondering if the actual goal for those people hadn't been, as it so often was, money or power, but in the end, he hadn't really cared enough about whether those people might gain from the project in one way or another. He hadn't known much about Saudi Arabia, but he'd informed himself and found out that the country was very rich concerning oil and very poor concerning human rights. Now his task was to prevent terrorist attacks in this country, and the fact that he'd be able to save lives by doing so wouldn't be altered by whatever politic power plays were going on underneath._

 _However, he hadn't foreseen the consequences of this mission, and they shattered his idealistic intentions. The game that this damn institution was playing with everyone was more than foul, and he definitely wouldn't continue his involvement._

 _Charlie inhaled deeply. He didn't know how his current bosses might react if he told them that he was about to cop out, more importantly, that he would unveil their dark secret (although, Charlie thought nervously, there was no reason to tell them that now). But in the end, he wasn't all that concerned about taking safety measures, not in that moment of furious agitation._

" _Mr. Rosenthal?"_

 _His boss – or at least Charlie's go-to-man for whatever problems or solutions he stumbled upon – looked up from his documents. Just like Charlie, he too only had a tiny office with only one small window directly beneath the ceiling. "Dr. Eppes. What may I do for you?"_

 _Just like every time, Charlie shuddered when he saw that cold smile. And yet, Daniel Rosenthal always managed to remain polite._

 _Charlie swallowed, gathered all his courage and then said very clearly, "I'm going to stop working on the project, Sir. I'm asking you to excuse the short notice, but my services won't be at your disposal any longer from this point onward."_

 _For a moment, Charlie thought the other man was about to jump at him; his threatening and furious features had an eerie effect. But only a second later, his features were calm again, and the smile even colder. "May I ask why, Doctor?"_

 _Again, Charlie swallowed. "I can't go on doing this, Sir."_

" _And why is that?"_

" _I… I've found out what you're doing."_

 _The same instant he uttered those words, Charlie knew he'd made a mistake. The smile now seemed to be coming directly from the polar regions. Rosenthal stood, slowly rounded the table and walked towards him. Charlie didn't dare to move. Mirroring an amicable gesture, Rosenthal laid an arm around Charlie's shoulders, but the strength with which he held him and its resulting restrictive nature left no doubt about how to interpret the action. The iron-fist touch heralded what was in store for him._

" _Please follow me, Dr. Eppes. It seems like we have something to discuss."_

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When Don opened the door to the garage, he was filled with an inadequate amount of relief at the sight of Charlie standing at his blackboards. Then, however, he noticed that Charlie wasn't writing. He was just standing there, leaning against the blackboard with his fist, his head bent down slightly. And he was trembling.

Don swallowed and approached slowly. "Charlie?" he said softly, but there was no answer. Still slowly, he got nearer. He called his name once more in that same soft, angst-filled tone and lightly touched his brother's upper arm. This close, he could see that Charlie's T-shirt was glued to his back. It was soaked with sweat.

"Charlie!" Don called once more, tightening his grip. He was now standing directly next to his brother and could see that he had his eyes tightly closed and his forehead puckered. It didn't make things a whole lot better when he slowly opened his eyes, staring at Don with an empty expression.

He swallowed again. "Is everything okay, Charlie?"

Don only started breathing again when he saw that Charlie's gaze re-focused and was now directed at him and not at something in the depths of his own mind. "Sure," Charlie said quietly, still sounding a bit out of it. "What's going on?"

 _Good question_ , Don thought before it occurred to him why he'd come. "My co-workers just came over. They'd like to see you."

"Megan?" Charlie asked. He was returning only gradually to the here and now, but the memories of the information Alan and Don had given him last week were still there.

Don nodded. "Yeah. And David and Colby. But I think I haven't told you about them yet." Don was still watching his brother appraisingly. He didn't know what had just happened, but he had an unsettling feeling that such episodes might become a normal state for Charlie, at least for the foreseeable future. And still those questions remained: had Charlie remembered? If so, what? And would it ever get better?

"Do they know that I don't remember them?"

"Yeah. I told them everything we know."

"So why do they want to see me?" Charlie didn't intend to be rude, but he wasn't particularly eager to be stared at like a circus animal.

"Believe it or not, they missed you. You work wi – you've worked with us often enough to become part of the team."

"Alright then," Charlie said curtly and freed himself both from the blackboard and the chalk. He was walking ahead of Don on purpose so that he didn't have to control the expressions on his face. He'd been part of the team? Why didn't he know that? True, by now he'd learned that Don worked with the FBI and that he himself had helped him every now and then using his math, but that he should know Don's co-workers as well or almost as well as his own and that his memory was failing him here as well weren't things meant to make him feel better. He was getting sick of getting to know people who'd known him for ages and wanted to see him again. He didn't know how many more times he could bear seeing the disappointment in their eyes and feeling the guilt associated with it.

"Hey, Whiz Kid!" he was greeted by a sandy-haired man when they entered the living-room. He was looking into three beaming faces, a female one and two male ones. The 'Megan' in his head was now provided with a face, which seemed strangely familiar to him, but with Colby and David he wasn't sure who was who. True, he had a certain feeling, he didn't know on what grounds –

"So these are my colleagues Megan, David and Colby," Don presented them to him as if he'd never seen them before. That made Charlie immediately feel a little better, not just because the three agents accepted the presentation as if it were perfectly normal, but also because he'd guessed right about the distribution of their names.

"Hi Charlie," the woman said, smiling broadly. "You probably can't imagine how glad we are to see you again."

"And that safe and sound," the bold man, David, added.

"I guess we should seize the opportunity and drink to that, what do you think?" Don said grinning and was already on his way into the kitchen. Charlie looked after him on purpose so that he could ignore that the agents were still staring at him. Luckily, Don returned shortly with five bottles of beer in his hands. "Sorry guys, but apparently we've run out of hard liquor."

Colby sighed, complaining with mock irritation, "We should have seen it coming, without the house husband at home, everything's coming down."

"Careful, Granger, I'm still your boss." The crinkles around Don's eyes told them that he wasn't serious either. The crinkles became even deeper when Don noticed that not only the federal agents were having fun, but that also on Charlie's face a smile had appeared, still a bit shy, but it was genuine and not forced.

They clinked glasses and sat in the living-room. The couch was occupied by Don's colleagues and each of the two armchairs by one of the brothers. Megan started to inform Don about the progress of one of their cases, and Charlie was glad about it. He enjoyed being able to lean back for once, being out of the spotlight. And every now and then, he even heard a name that seemed familiar to him. There was no denying it: he felt at ease around these people, or relatively at ease, for of course he noticed the glances they gave him every now and then. But it could have been worse.

While Charlie realized what he was witnessing – a normal conversation between friends that, at first glance, wasn't hindered by anything – his desire to belong to them grew with an almost painful velocity and intensity. He wanted to remember and join in their discussion, talk with them about that case, he wanted to be a part of this normal life. He wanted his back.

 _Tomorrow,_ he told himself with conviction. _Tomorrow you've got another appointment with the psychotherapist, he's going to help you. You'll get back on your feet somehow. Dr. Bradford said he's confident. Everything will be just fine. You'll get back to normal._

He almost managed to convince himself.

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When the team was getting ready to leave, Megan jumped up from her seat. "Hang on, Don, I'll help you put the glasses in the dishwasher."

Don, who had no intention of starting to clean up right now, looked at his co-worker with a slightly befuddled look, murmuring a "That's really not necessary, Megan," while she somehow managed to steer him into the kitchen without using any form of bodily contact. Behind himself, Don could hear David's and Colby's voices and briefly wondered if Charlie might feel alright around them, but Megan soon directed his attention towards herself.

"So? How are you doing?"

"Really? _That's_ why you dragged me out here?"

Megan's response amounted to nothing more than a hard, determined look in her eyes.

Don gave a laugh. "Well, I'm doing great! Maybe you haven't realized, but that's Charlie sitting out there, and if you ask me, he's looking very much alive."

"Exactly."

Don raised his eye-brows. "Do you mind explaining to me what you're getting at?"

Megan sighed. "Why do I always have to remind you guys that I have a degree in psychology? Don, I can see that you're having more difficulty with this situation than you're letting on."

Don forced himself to laugh. "What?"

She sighed again. "Just hear me out?" He didn't interrupt her, so she went on. "There's nothing bad about having a hard time readjusting to such a change, Don. You'd probably be the most callous person alive if you hadn't a hard time. Sure, on the outside, you're acting like the attentive host who's overjoyed to have his brother back."

"Because I am!"

"I'm not questioning that. But you can't just pretend that everything's fine. You had lost your brother, Don. Then you thought you got him back, and now you're not sure if he's really the same brother you lost or if he will ever be that again."

"He's not –" Don started loudly, but stopped abruptly. He'd wanted to say, 'He's not crazy', but to tell the truth, he wasn't so sure. Considering how Charlie was acting lately…

Don inhaled deeply, realizing grudgingly that he couldn't suppress the slight tremble that went through his body. Megan was right. She'd described his situation to the point in such a way that Don was, not for the first time, tempted to believe she could read minds. Yes, he was afraid for Charlie's mental state. And he was afraid to be exorbitantly overchallenged with the situation, for then he wouldn't be able to help his brother.

"It's… it's hard."

"You feel like the situation's asking too much of you?"

Don swallowed hard. He hadn't planned to talk about that with any living soul, but he couldn't bury it inside of him any longer either, not now that Megan had broken through his reserve. "It's just so hard. I don't know how long I can go on like this. And I don't know how we can ever get back to an everyday life. We thought he was _dead_ , Megan, you understand what that means? He was dead. And now he's back…" He stopped, unable to go on, and ran his hands over his face. After a few seconds, he continued, still having his hands in front of his face so that Megan had some difficulty understanding his words. "I guess I'm still having trouble believing it. Everything's still so overwhelming."

Megan nodded and lightly touched his arm. "I think I can empathize with that." Don looked up and was confronted both with Megan's reassuring smile and with the unleashed tears in her eyes. She cleared her voice. "Look, Don, all I'm trying to say is that it's a completely normal reaction to be overwhelmed, and that it might be a good idea to face your feelings instead of forcing yourself to be the strong one all the time and not let anybody in."

Don smiled. "You might be right. Thanks, Megan. I guess I needed that."

Megan was frowning now. "You know I'm always happy to lend you an ear – and I mean that. But I think that your dad and Charlie are the ones you should really confide in."

Don's smile became a grin. "Nah, I'm good for now." He stood. "Now we should really get back before David and Colby wreak havoc in the whole house."

He was out of the kitchen before Megan could object.

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Don's team had hardly left when Charlie started to retreat again. Don hadn't missed the fact that his brother had become unnaturally quiet all of a sudden, not with that nervous silence as though he didn't know what to say or do, but with some sort of melancholic tranquility. It was strange, during the day it had been that nervous silence that, however, had gradually melted away from him until he'd seemed almost normal. But then, Don couldn't say exactly when, he'd started not to let anyone near him and had retreated to his inner self. That was where he still seemed to be now.

Don was watching him from the kitchen window. His brother was sitting at the koi pond, staring into the water, lost in thoughts. Don wondered if Charlie knew how often he'd sat there, completely immersed in his own world. This was one of the times when Don was reluctant to disturb him, when he was content with just watching him with fascination and waiting until Charlie would open up to him on his own account.

Only that this time, he didn't think that Charlie would open up to him. He'd have to take matters into his own hands.

Charlie didn't move as Don approached from behind, even though Don wasn't being quiet. He didn't want to startle his brother. "Charlie!" he therefore called out when he was still some yards away. Charlie seemed to jump a bit, but at least when he turned around, the look in his eyes wasn't fearful, just questioning. And now Don realized that he'd failed to think of a pretense why he was disturbing his brother in his musings.

"Hey… so what do you wanna do tonight? Should we maybe order a pizza and watch an old movie?" The spontaneous ideas were indeed the best ones. And the most truthful ones, for they revealed both Don's desire to spend time with his brother and his longing for normalcy.

Charlie, however, seemed to have other plans. "No. I guess I'm gonna turn in early tonight."

Don felt a bit snubbed and therefore a bit stunned, but he didn't give in. "Okay, no problem. So what should we eat?"

Charlie shrugged. "I don't need anything tonight, I'm not really hungry."

Okay, something wasn't right here. This was neither the Charlie that Don knew nor the one he'd gotten to know during the past few days. The new Charlie wouldn't have been so impolite and the old one probably wouldn't have refused the offer. Something had to be going on, and Don was determined to find out what it was.

"What's going on, Charlie?" He hesitated, but decided it would be better to live with the truth than remaining in this state of uncertainty. Like ripping off a band-aid. "Are you mad at me? Did I do something wrong?"

Charlie laughed softly and without joy. "You should try that the other way round."

With that, Don's confusion was perfect. "What are you talking about?"

"Come on, there's no sense in denying it. I understand that you want to get rid of me, really, I do. You know, I might not remember certain things, but that doesn't mean I'm retarded or something. I'm quite aware that I'm only causing problems for you and your dad."

No sound came out of Don's mouth, even though it was wide open.

"I'm going to bed then, but you don't need to show any consideration, just… do what you want. Good night."

It was only when Charlie stood that Don gathered his wits and held him back at his arm. "What's going on Charlie? What are you talking about?"

"I would think I have made that sufficiently clear, haven't I?"

"Yeah, but… why on earth would you think that we'd want to get rid of you?" Don was aghast and utterly confused.

Charlie remained as calm as Don was agitated. "One, it's only logical. I mean, I turn up here, making a mess of your lives. You always have to be considerate of me and you're always so careful and keep walking on eggshells around me. Of course I'm aware that you're no longer up for that." He hesitated and bowed his head. Suddenly, the ground seemed to be very interesting. His next words were hard to understand, in two senses of the word. "Plus, I heard you talking to Megan."

"So?" Don was frowning. Having been overheard at such a private conversation was a bit disconcerting, true, but right now, his confusion trumped all other emotions. He couldn't remember anything he'd said (at least not during that conversation) that would have justified Charlie's out-of-the-world theory that they didn't want him here.

"Come on, Don, who are you kidding? I mean, I get it. And as soon as I find a place of my own, I promise I'll be gone, and you can go on living your life."

"Charlie, what the hell? We don't want you to go, do you hear me? What on earth are you talking about? What is it you think I said to Megan?"

Charlie had crossed his arms in front of his chest now. "How about, 'It's hard, just so hard, I don't know how long I can go on like this, we thought he was dead and now he's back, I don't know how to get back to an everyday life'? I heard you Don, you don't have to go to the trouble of pretending you didn't say it."

"But Charlie!" Don was so relieved that he would have liked to laugh out loud, but the memory of his words and of all the emotions accompanying them became vivid again, suffocating any feeling of joy. "Of course I said that, but I meant it in a whole other way than you're thinking!"

"Right. And how exactly did you mean them?"

Charlie still didn't believe him. Don's relief was gone now, replaced by a gravity that pushed him down as he realized that Charlie didn't trust him, that he obviously had no idea how they felt about him. He seemed to think they had been somehow glad when he'd died, relieved to be rid of him. For Don, that sounded so absurd that he could hardly fathom the idea. For Charlie, however, it seemed to be an irrefutable truth, and he didn't believe Don that the opposite was the case.

There had to be something he could do. There had to be some way to show Charlie how they really felt about him, to prove it to him once and for all, right?

Right. And he already knew how. "Come," he said quietly, suddenly very earnest.

Charlie followed him, but still seemed far from convinced. Don led him into the house and to the old sideboard in the living-room. He opened the uppermost drawer and immediately found what he'd been looking for; the pieces of paper in question were lying on top.

He held the three carefully cut out newspaper clippings out to his brother. With a remainder of mistrust still evident in his eyes, Charlie took them and then read the obituaries that had been printed in the newspaper after his death.

 _CalSci is mourning the loss of their friend and colleague Prof. Dr. Charles Edward Eppes. Words cannot describe the loss his death means for us in every regard. A star was extinguished, but his light continues shining.  
_ _Our sympathy goes to his family.  
_ _In deep appreciation and with sorrow  
_ _California Institute of Science_

 _You have gone with no return. We cannot understand, because you're not here to explain it to us. We miss you, Professor.  
_ _We wish that you may rest in peace. We will never forget you.  
_ _In grateful remembrance  
_ _Your postgraduates of CalSci_

 _We still cannot understand that you have gone and will not come back. You have been torn away from our midst and the pain that is left by your absence is almost unbearable. Without you, life as we know it has ended, but we will forever keep you in our hearts.  
_ _We hope that you have found your peace. We miss you.  
_ _With deep love and sorrow  
_ _Alan and Don Eppes and Amita Ramanujan_

When he had reached that last obituary, Charlie had already had difficulties reading the text through the tears in his eyes. Had he really meant that much to all these people? Of course, he knew that obituaries tended to hype people even if they had been avoided or even hated by their fellow men when they'd still been alive. Still, these words seemed to be so heartfelt, so earnest…

So _that_ was what he'd meant to them. They'd lost it, and not only for himself, Charlie feared that they might have lost their loved one for good. For he didn't know who he'd been before, but he doubted very much that he was the same one at this moment.

"You understand now?" he heard a croaky voice beside him and jerked around. His brother's moist eyes hit him completely unexpected. " _That's_ what I meant. We thought you were dead, Charlie."

By now Charlie knew what Don meant by those words. However, he still wasn't sure if his 'resurrection' had suffocated the grief or if it hadn't rather aroused even more pain. Fact was, he was ashamed, for everything. He was ashamed for having caused so much grief, for not remembering, for making things so difficult for everyone.

He didn't look at Don when he started to speak, he couldn't. "Would it be –" His voice failed him. He didn't want to say it, and he didn't want to imagine the answer, but he had to. "It would be better if I were really gone. It would have been easier for you to just forget and get over it."

The words had been forced out of his throat croakily and Don had difficulty understanding him. Even when he'd finally managed, he still didn't understand. He was shaking his head slightly. His brother couldn't really be serious, right? "Charlie – we've been thinking for more than half a year that you were gone. Believe me, it's definitely better that you're with us again."

Charlie could feel a weight lifted from his heart, but it somehow seemed to have found its way into his stomach and at the same time, through some incomprehensible miracle, into his throat in the form of a lump. He swallowed and managed to utter the only words he could think of. "I'm sorry, Don." He'd mistrusted them. He'd devalued their benevolence. He'd underestimated their love for him. "I'm so sorry."

Don pulled him into a fierce hug which Charlie returned just as firmly. "You don't have to be sorry, Charlie," Don whispered. "The important thing is that everything's okay now."


	19. Ambivalence

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1  
 **A/N:** Thanks for your support and your kind words! I'm sorry that I'm not keeping up the posting rate I started with, but real life demands its share of my time. I'll try to keep posting new chapters at least once a week though.

* * *

19\. Ambivalence

Dr. Bradford stood when they entered. "Ah, the brothers Eppes! How are you two doing today?"

As an answer, Charlie merely pressed a 'fine' past his larynx, but Don's shrug was even less informative.

Bradford had to suppress a grin. Communication really seemed to be an almost exotic rarity in that family. However, as long as there were people like them, he'd never be out of a job.

Speaking of his job, he was eager to get to work today. An idea had occurred to him and he was actually rubbing his hands with zeal. "I had an idea, Charlie," he started as soon as the brothers had sat down on the couch. He didn't go on immediately, but waited for an answer instead.

It came. "What kind of idea?"

Bradford was satisfied with this first step. Charlie had asked the question, even without any discernable mistrust in his voice, and that meant that he would probably agree to the psychotherapist's idea. Still, Bradford considered it wiser to approach the matter slowly, step by step. "I assume that you still want to remember."

Charlie hesitated. "Of course," he then said.

Bradford frowned. Why had his patient hesitated? Didn't he want to remember? Or… "Have you already remembered certain details, Charlie?"

Charlie avoided his eyes and shrugged. "Maybe some details, yeah. Not more though."

Bradford nodded slightly and looked at Charlie sternly, but since his patient was staring at the floor, the action wasn't very fruitful. Bradford made a short note in his file. It seemed as though his patient was hiding something, as though he was holding back memories he did indeed remember, but nevertheless Bradford was quite sure that most of Charlie's former life was still dark matter to him.

He continued. "But you want to remember everything?"

"Yeah."

Again, Bradford nodded slightly. "Alright. In that case I suggest we try hypnosis."

During the following three seconds, one might have heard a needle drop in the room. "Hypnosis," Don finally repeated skeptically.

Bradford smiled a little. He'd expected Don to be willfully obstructive. "Yes, hypnosis," he confirmed. "Or rather hypnotherapy. You don't seem to have any noteworthy psychological issues, Charlie, at least not independent from your amnesia. Your memory loss is the problem at root, and therefore we should start here and try to get your memory back.

"There are a number of different methods within hypnotherapy, but since it is apparently your subconscious that is denying you certain information you should have and, if I'm not mistaken, you also want to have back, it would probably be best to put you in a trance. When that is done, I'm going to ask you further questions. You don't need to worry, nothing is going to happen to you. The trance is only going to turn off you conscious mind step by step so that your subconscious mind may unfold freely."

"You want to turn off his conscious mind?" Don interrupted him with consternation.

The little smile crept back on Bradford's lips. A glance at his patient's puckered forehead told him that he too was a bit concerned about paralyzing his conscious mind, but Don would apparently be the bigger obstacle. "Of course your conscious mind is not going to be turned off completely," he placated, though directing his words at his patient. "We just have to make it and thus also your critical faculty and your analytical mind step back a little so that we can make your unconscious mind talk. You are still going to be able to hear me, Charlie, you're just going to think less consciously during that."

Charlie debated the therapist's words in his mind. "And you think this is going to work?" he then asked. "That I'm going to remember something during the hypnosis?"

"I can't guarantee that," Bradford admitted. "Hypnosis can be quite controversial with trauma or amnesia patients, especially in cases where the events in question happened a long time ago. That, however, doesn't apply to you, and judging from what you already told me, I don't think that there are false memories held in your subconscious either, which would of course render this method more difficult, if not impossible. In any case I think that we should give it a try, Charlie."

Charlie nodded, but all of a sudden he was very insecure. Bradford had said that false memories would prevent the therapy from succeeding – so was there even a chance it could work? Seeing that he could remember how Don was dead although he was obviously alive?

"You're not even sure if it's gonna work, but you wanna try anyway?" Don asked, still not having given up his mistrust or the frown on his face. "How do you know –"

"Leave it alone, Don," Charlie interrupted him with determination before turning directly towards Bradford. "I want to try it."

Charlie was a bit freaked out by his own sudden decision. He still wasn't sure whether he wanted to be hypnotized. The probability it would work didn't seem that high, at least from his perspective. On the other hand, he wanted to seize every opportunity there was. Even if the probability of it working was low – coincidences were a mathematical reality, so why shouldn't there be a coincidence at work now? Anyway, when Don had started once again to act as his legal guardian, Charlie had known instinctively that he had to make a decision himself – quickly, before he'd lose courage.

One could see that Don was taken by surprise, to say the least. He hadn't expected that. He hadn't seen Charlie this resolute since – yeah, he realized with an uneasy feeling in his stomach, since Charlie had gone to that secret mission more than half a year ago.

"That's good," Bradford assessed. "First, however, we should agree upon how to proceed. I have to admit to you, Charlie, that hypnosis isn't my specialty. I am capable of performing the treatment, but there are also psychotherapists who specialize in hypnosis. If you'd like, I could refer you to one of my colleagues."

Charlie shook his head. He should go to a new therapist, another unfamiliar face, and tell everything once again? "No, thanks, I would like to continue the treatment with you."

"Very well." Bradford was content. Charlie's decision told him that he'd managed to establish a foundation of trust. Especially during the hypnosis, this would be essential, just as essential as it would be that Charlie felt respected like an equal, able to make his own decisions, and didn't see his doctor as a foreign force treating him in a lofty manner. "Do you feel ready to start now?"

Charlie felt like he'd been thrown in at the deep end, but on the other hand he knew that things wouldn't get better by just prolonging the waiting period. "Yeah, sure. We can start now."

"Alright. First, I'm going to slowly lead you into a state of relaxation, Charlie." Dr. Bradford looked his patient over. Stiff and completely unrelaxed. "Please lie down on the couch and close your eyes. I know, this sounds very cliché, but you'll notice that it'll actually help you to get rid of the tension."

Still not completely convinced, Don vacated his seat on the couch and sat in the armchair instead. Charlie followed the therapist's request only hesitantly, but even when he did, he found that he couldn't quite agree with the doctor's last words.

"Let the tension go, Charlie. Nothing's going to happen to you here. Nobody's going to hurt you. You can let go."

Charlie couldn't help it: he trusted Bradford. He didn't know whether it was because of Don's presence or because of that quiet voice, but he actually felt the tension in his body slowly recede. He was determined not to give up control completely, though. He couldn't do that. He had to maintain control over what was going on, what he'd say, at least a little.

Bradford could see that Charlie was indeed relaxing a bit, but he was far from satisfied with the result. He spent a bit more time and words on the progressive muscle relaxation and on controlling Charlie's breathing, but he couldn't discern any further improvement.

Eventually, Bradford made a decision. "Charlie, I'm going to send Don out of the room now." Don's head jerked around to the therapist so quickly that he almost got a kink in his neck. Bradford, however, wouldn't budge. "Don. You're going to leave now. I'm sure you understand that." One could easily see from the look in Don's eyes that he didn't understand anything and that he wasn't willing to leave his brother alone either. In the look Bradford gave him, however, Don could see that resistance was futile. With reluctance and an uneasy feeling in his stomach, he left the treating room.

Since Charlie had watched Don's leaving quite awake, although silently, Bradford started anew with the induction of the trance. He explicitly stressed that Don could not hear them any longer and that therefore Charlie didn't have to wonder whether something he said might hurt his feelings. "Everything will stay between us, Charlie. I won't tell anybody about anything that is going to happen here if you don't want me to."

He started with some innocuous images. He asked Charlie to pull up in front of his inner eye places of his past and tell him what he was thinking and feeling at seeing them. The results were satisfying and Bradford thought it was time to go one step further. "I'd now like to ask you to picture your father. Can you see his picture before you?"

"Yeah." Charlie's voice was strangely hollow, but as quiet as probably nobody had heard it for quite a while.

"Describe it to me. What do you see?"

"My father. Alan Eppes. He's smiling. And he's got that spark in his eyes. He's wearing reading glasses and sitting in his favorite armchair with a newspaper in his lap."

Bradford was glad. So Charlie's subconscious was accepting Alan as his dad.

"Very good. And now a picture of your brother."

Unable to control what his mind was doing, the image appeared in front of Charlie's inner eye, that image that could no longer be kept at bay. The dead Don, his body lying motionless on the floor, blood, and always that voice, _This is your fault, Doctor Eppes…_

 _He was lying huddled up on his bed. He was cold. His eyes were wide open, but he didn't notice. There was complete darkness all around him, but in front of his inner eye, there was still that horror image, painted in its intense, painfully bright and all too realistic colors. Don… It was his fault, he'd killed his own brother, Don was dead, he was dead, dead…_

"No… Don… I didn't want that… Don!"

Woah. Okay, he'd definitely stumbled upon something there. His patient's state was now far from relaxed and Bradford's mind was working feverishly at determining how to calm him back down. "Please stay calm, Charlie. Everything is alright. Describe to me what you can see, please."

There didn't seem to be anything farther from Charlie's mind. Bradford had to realize with repugnance that his own voice was also starting to lose more and more of its calm. "Nothing's going to happen here, Charlie, nobody's going to hurt you. You're safe. Everything you see is only happening in your mind. Now talk to me, Charlie, I want to help you. Describe to me what you can see."

 _The walls around him were gray, but they didn't compare to the walls within which he felt imprisoned. He felt like he couldn't breathe, there was always that image, that horrific image… He had thought that Don would come and help him and get him out of captivity, and now… It couldn't be true, he just couldn't –_

 _And he, Charlie, was responsible, he'd told them, again and again, that his big brother would come and rescue him, he'd known that there were people at home missing him and looking for him, and he'd been right. His brother had indeed come, had tried to rescue him and he'd had to pay the price for his selfless deed._

 _And it was his fault, he couldn't change that, it would forever be his fault, and Don… It just couldn't be, Don couldn't…_

"I… I want out, please… I don't want to… please, Don…"

"Alright, Charlie, it's okay now." Bradford didn't know what was going on in his patient's head, but he did know that Charlie was much too upset for this to be helpful to continue. "Please calm down."

It was almost as if Charlie was set to do the opposite. "Don!" He was now downright shouting. "No! Don! Don…"

"You have to come back now, Charlie. There's no reason to be afraid. You're in my office, Don's just outside waiting for you. Everything's fine. Please open your eyes now."

The door and Charlie's eyes were jerked wide open. In Charlie's eyes, there was only a wordless expression of horror, whereas in the doorway, things were going on much more noisily.

"Charlie!"

"You can't go in there now. If the doctor asked you to wait outside –"

"Charlie, what's going on?"

"Sir, you can't –"

"What did you do to him?"

"Enough." Bradford's voice was as calm as at the beginning of the hypnosis, but it nonetheless managed to shut up the two people at the door. "Please let Mr. Eppes come in, Mrs. Hopkins," he told his upset secretary, who didn't look particularly pleased when the door closed between her and the three men.

Don spared Bradford neither a word nor a glance, but was instantly kneeling at Charlie's side. "What happened, Charlie?"

It was only now that Bradford could turn back his full attention to his patient. Charlie was still breathing rapidly and shallowly, but seemed to have realized by now where he was. Bradford was only hoping that his brother's presence was helping him with that and not confusing him even more.

"Talk to me, Charlie! What's going on?"

Bradford was about to regret his decision to let Don inside. It wasn't without reason that he had left his patient in peace until now, he knew that Charlie needed a little time to get his head back together. At least now that Don saw that Charlie obviously still wasn't able to answer his questions, the older Eppes seemed to realize that as well and turned towards the therapist.

"What's going on?" he repeated. "What did you do to him?"

"Please calm down, Don. Everything's fine."

"Fine? Are you kidding me? I could hear Charlie scream from outside, scream _for me_! You shouldn't have sent me out in the first place!"

"I beg of you, please calm down." Bradford began to feel like a broken record.

"What did you do to my brother?!"

"Don… leave him alone."

Charlie's voice still sounded a bit tremulous, but that didn't mean that it had less effect on Don because of that. The older Eppes brother immediately forgot about the therapist, turning worried eyes towards Charlie. "What happened? How are you feeling? Are you okay?"

Charlie didn't reply to either of those questions, but only said, "I'd like to go now."

That was the moment when Bradford had to intervene. "Charlie – if you may pardon me saying so, I don't think that's a very good idea."

"Oh, you don't?" Don still hadn't lost any of his anger. "Well, we don't really care, we just saw what happens if we stick to what you consider a good idea!"

"I'd like to be alone now."

"Charlie, I really don't think that would be best for you right now. You should talk about –"

"I should have known that this was a stupid idea!"

And without paying any more attention to Bradford's advice, one very agitated and one very withdrawn Eppes brother left the doctor's office.

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The brothers had almost arrived at home when Don realized that Charlie hadn't said a word during the whole ride, while he himself had indulged in an uncharacteristic eloquence to rant about Dr. Bradford. Now, all of a sudden his anger was gone, and Don gave his brother nervous side-glances while at the same time trying to concentrate on L.A.'s busy afternoon traffic.

"Are you okay, buddy? Do you wanna talk about anything?"

"No," Charlie quietly replied and looked out of the window.

Don warred a little with himself, but eventually decided to postpone the conversation until later.

Later, however, things weren't looking much better. They had hardly arrived home when Charlie retreated to his garage. He had to think, he said, and no, there was nothing Don could do to help him. "I just need some time."

Don swallowed. There it was again, the magic cure. Time. He'd already forgotten all about Dr. Andrews' advice. Had he been pushing Charlie too hard? Had he put him under pressure without wanting, yeah, without even realizing it? It looked like it. But everything he could do now to make amends was to leave Charlie alone, no matter how hard that was on himself.

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Once again, the green blackboards managed to calm Charlie down a bit. As always, they worked their magic on him: they could inspire him when he was looking for stimulations, and brought him back down when he was all too agitated. At least they managed to do so this time. And now, what he'd been apprehensive of the whole time became a certainty to him: he'd made a mistake. He shouldn't have piled out of Bradford's office like that. That image… it was still inside him and wouldn't just disappear on its own. Bradford was right, he needed to talk to someone about it. And right now, the psychotherapist was the most desired candidate for that task. The only one, in fact.

 _Tomorrow,_ Charlie told himself. He had another appointment the next day. Until then, he'd just – yeah, what? What exactly was he supposed to do until then? He was strongly tempted to push the image out of his mind again, but for one thing, he wasn't sure if he would be able to do that, and for another he was afraid that maybe he _would_ be able to do that. He'd already forgotten so much about his past – was it really a good idea to deliberately suppress the few memories he had? Certainly not.

On the other hand, being confronted with that image was almost unbearable. Maybe it would be best if he just took his mind off things for a while, maybe seek other people's company. However, Don was the only one at home right now, and he was the only person that Charlie could not see without being reminded of that gruesome event of his past.

But maybe that image, as horrific as it might be, could be seen as an opportunity? Maybe he'd be able to reveal further secrets from his past going from there? Yes… It was like a door that was being opened for him, and Charlie was determined to step over the threshold.

He visualized the image again, focusing on the surroundings and blocking out the horrifying figure on the floor. Where was he? How could things have come so far? What had happened? What did he know? Bradford had told him that he'd probably been held captive. That sounded plausible for Charlie. And he couldn't shake the thought that this Mr. Rosenthal had something to do with that – in any event, the goose bumps he always got at the mere thought of him were a good indicator for that. 'I've found out what you're doing,' he'd told him. And then…

 _The four gray walls, the room's barrenness, the humidity, the cold – all these things put together made Charlie think of his surroundings as a dungeon. The fact that he didn't know what they were planning to do to him didn't make things better, and neither was he sure what to think about the fact that apparently, they didn't know either. It seemed as though they had just put him here, shunted him out of the way, until the problem would be solved on its own. For example by Charlie deciding to work for them. Or by them finishing their project. Or by him committing suicide._

 _Charlie swallowed. He was afraid. He was afraid of what this room might do to him, and afraid of what his adversaries might do to him. He had to get out…_

 _But he had to stay. He wanted, he needed to stay in this room. For he knew that the only occasion they let him outside was to interrogate him, and everything was better then that. True, they'd been avoiding inflicting physical pain on him until now, but that was about all the good he could say of them. Charlie knew what they were doing. They were planning to get him to help them again, to work for them again, to make sure he would comply with whatever they were doing. And they had a plan how to get what they wanted. They were trying to put so much mental pressure on him until he'd become their willingless marionette and continue doing his magic math tricks for them. They would never succeed though, not now that he knew what they were doing._

 _Or that was what he hoped. He hoped fervently that they wouldn't succeed. But each day, his conviction wavered just a little more, and the desire to get away from all this, to get out, to get free, was increasing inversely proportionally to that conviction._

 _He would have given anything if he could only make contact with someone outside of this hell, if he could make himself noticed somehow, call for help. But he was completely cut off from the rest of the world, he couldn't even reach the barred window. How much he would have given to have his cell with him, he could have just called for help –_

That was it! Therefore the numbers!

Charlie was so agitated that the dungeon's atmosphere immediately dispersed into thin air. He'd found another piece of the puzzle, one that fit perfectly within the framework built by all the other pieces, even though there still wasn't much to see. But this explained his dream, the dream he'd had in the clinic. He'd dreamed of Don's phone number then, and before that, he'd dreamed of Don's phone number when he'd been in captivity, that was it! He'd wanted to call Don for help, had wanted it so fiercely that the thought had entered his dreams, and Don had indeed come, though under completely different circumstances!

Charlie inhaled deeply and a grin was spreading on his face. He'd known that this hypno-thing hadn't been such a bad idea after all. He'd been right, it had helped him. He was starting to remember.


	20. Home Together

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1

* * *

20\. Home Together

The realization to be able to reveal his past piece by piece only to himself kept Charlie in a feeling of elation. He even felt comfortable enough to seek Don's company.

He strode into the house and for a second, he became a little insecure. Don was half sitting, half lying on the couch, listlessly channel-hopping, but when he heard the noises coming from the back door, he jumped up immediately.

"Charlie, hey! …Everything alright?"

Don's nervousness was in danger of rubbing off on Charlie, but the latter's elation was strong enough to face his brother and not retreat once again. "I'm fine." And now the switch to the offense. "Have you already eaten?"

"I – no. No, I haven't. You hungry?"

Charlie was grinning now, only slightly shyly. "Sure."

"Okay." Don's nervousness was slowly dissipating and also on his face a grin appeared that gradually increased in intensity. "Okay. Should we heat up something of what Dad left us in the fridge?"

"Sure." Charlie would have consented to anything in that moment. True, he still couldn't get the memory of the image out of his mind completely, but at the same time he was determined not to let himself bothered by it anymore. After all, it didn't hold any significance right now. Don was here, perfectly alive, and they were together. The demons in his head could go to the devil for a while.

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Dinner was spent with an atmosphere of almost overwhelming normalcy. For the first time in over half a year, Don was able to have a real conversation with his brother, and he wasn't bothered in the slightest when Charlie soon started to talk about statistics when the topic came to baseball. Sure, Charlie's amnesia was still obvious, but there were moments, just instants, when Don almost forgot all about that.

Afterwards, they watched an old movie, and this time Don was certain that Charlie went to bed because he was indeed tired and that it wasn't merely an excuse.

He too was tired, but as happy as he hadn't been for a really long time. When he was in the bathroom and caught himself humming softly to himself, his grin became even wider and his good mood even better. Everything was coming back together, everything would be fine.

His elation and his tiredness let him soon slip into a nightmareless slumber. The night was quiet and all of Pasadena seemed to be resting in peaceful sleep as though there wasn't anything bad going on in the entire world. The leaves in the trees were rustling softly, and every now and then a night bird would pipe up. Other than that, there was silence. A deep, pure peace. Finally some quiet.

Then, in the middle of the night, an ear-piercing scream split the peaceful tranquility.

* * *

Don was sitting upright in his bed in an instant. The next moment, he'd already crossed his room and was on his way to Charlie, his heart hammering in his chest. What had happened? Had somebody broken into the house? True, it might only be a nightmare, but Don couldn't be sure, maybe there was something wrong, maybe there was an attacker standing over Charlie's bed right now, a darkly clad masked man with a knife in his hand that was quivering over Charlie's scared form, ready to flash down on him…

Don yanked the door open. His fear slowly subsided. There was no faceless intruder to be seen, just Charlie lying in his bed. Well no, he wasn't actually lying, more like throwing himself from side to side, fighting with the comforter. So it really was only a nightmare.

Still, Don thought it was too soon to breathe a sigh of relief just yet. Nightmares might be harmless, but considering what Bradford had said, that during his nightmares, Charlie tried to get to terms with what had happened to him… Besides, Don found it extremely freaky that in spite of his scream, Charlie still didn't seem to have woken up.

"Charlie, it's okay, everything's fine." With three leaps, Don had crossed the room and was now standing helplessly over the form of his little brother who was still fighting with his bedclothes. For one second, Don's hands were just hovering inches away from Charlie's upper arms. Eventually though he jumped in at the deep end. He was sick of walking on eggshells. He pressed Charlie's arms tightly, trying to stop his brother's upper body from moving.

"Calm down, buddy," he said and tried hard to follow his own advice as well and to make the worry and uneasiness in his voice subside.

Charlie still wasn't looking at him, on the contrary, he was holding his eyes closed tightly, as though he was trying to shut something or somebody out. At least he finally stopped fighting with the comforter now. His fight had put him in a sitting position which he maintained, almost immobile, while Don was sitting beside him on the edge of the bed and listened to his brother's quick and shallow breathing, waiting for it to become more regular.

"That's good, Charlie, just calm down, everything's alright."

"Don?" Charlie's voice had gotten an unpleasantly familiar connotation to it: panic. Don felt his chest tighten at the sound, both with worry and with another feeling. Charlie was calling for him…

"I'm here, buddy." He gently laid a trembling hand on Charlie's left cheek.

Under the impression of the soft voice and the light touch, Charlie's eyes popped open, and big brown eye-balls were jumping nervously across the room until they found Don's calm figure and let their gaze wander over him. Don could see Charlie straighten hastily and shake his head, as though he was trying to get an image out of his mind. He had taken his hand from his brother's cheek, he didn't want to upset him again. But once more, Don realized that Charlie would probably never seize to surprise him. His brother slowly extended a trembling hand on his own, which got nearer and nearer to Don until, after a slow, dreamlike path, it had found its destination: Don's chest. Charlie's fingers were slightly touching the spot above Don's heart.

Don didn't dare to move. However, the tension inside him was increasing to an almost unbearable amount, and he was about to release it by saying something when Charlie spoke. "…Is this a dream?"

Charlie's words were so choked that Don had trouble understanding him. He had even more trouble with deciding what to reply to that, though. "No, you're awake," he finally stated as calmly as he could. Still, his voice was trembling.

"But…" His little brother seemed to be just as confused as him. Charlie's confusion, however, threatened to degenerate into panic. "But you're here…"

Don wanted to cry out. For a moment, a wonderful, dreamlike moment, he'd actually believed that Charlie wanted to have him here with him, when in truth, he was afraid of him.

"I guess I better leave you alone," he offered sadly, although he was trying not to show his despondency. He was half standing already when a surprisingly strong grip at his wrist held him back.

Don looked down at what was gripping him and recognized it as Charlie's hand, while his brother whispered, fear still evident in his choked voice, "No! No, Don, please! Please don't go!"

Don smiled and shook his head in relieved disbelief. Charlie's changeability was pretty confusing at times.

Charlie, who apparently interpreted the shaking of Don's head differently, strengthened his grip. "I'm sorry," he whispered and his voice was getting a sobbing quality. "I'm so sorry, but please… please just stay here!"

Don had no idea what was going on, but he was sure that – whatever it was – his dismay was justified. "Of course I'll stay, buddy," he hastily assured and bent back down to him. He carefully laid a comforting arm around Charlie's trembling shoulders, still afraid it might just upset his brother further. A bit of tension left Don when he realized that Charlie was tolerating the half-hug; still, he hesitated before he spoke again. "Do you… you want to tell me what you were dreaming about?"

Charlie wriggled out of Don's gentle hold, lay back down, turned on his side and shook his head. All the while, however, he never let go of Don's wrist.

"You sure?" Don asked.

Charlie nodded and Don had difficulty understanding the reply he mumbled into his cushion. "Just stay with me."

And both unable and unwilling to refuse his brother's request, Don lay down beside him, putting his right arm gently around Charlie's slim waist. Charlie, who had finally released Don's wrist, laid his left arm over Don's right one, and finally felt secure enough to close his eyes, in which tears were starting to form now. While they ran down his cheek, a single, soft sob escaped him that ended in a trembling intake of breath.

Don could feel the tension in his brother's stiff muscles recede a bit, but the improvement was too small to be significant. He bit his lower lip as he stared worriedly at the back of Charlie's head. He would have given everything to make him feel better – everything. But what could he do?

"Hey… shhhh…," he tried to soothe him. He thought his heart was about to break. "Everything's fine."

Don would have liked to slap himself in the face. What had he said? _Everything's fine?_ Was he out of his mind? Even a blind person could see that nothing was fine! Charlie was broken! Someone had broken him! And Don would find out who had done that, he would find those jerks and put them to justice, he would –

Don could feel Charlie's diaphragm contract when he sobbed again. As he pressed his little brother closer to himself, he too had a tear running down his cheek before it seeped away somewhere between the two dark heads. It was true, someone had damaged Charlie. But now, in this instant, when he could feel Charlie so close to him, that was hardly relevant anymore. Whatever might have happened to his brother, whatever they might have done to him, it was over now. Everything was indeed fine. Charlie was alright physically, and Don was at his side. Everything else would be resolved with time and care and love.

Don was sure of it.

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Alan paid the taxi driver, indicated that he could very well take his bag himself, and trudged towards the front door, inhaling the crisp morning air. Of course he didn't have to do that. Of course he wouldn't have needed to call a taxi. Of course he could have called Don and asked him to pick him up at the airport. But he neither wanted him to leave Charlie alone, nor did he want to expose Charlie to all those people again.

Still, he was glad to be home again, not only so he could be with his sons, but also because he was thoroughly exhausted. He realized that he'd flown four times during the past ten days – this time at an ungodly hour at that –, and for the sake of both his health and the environment, he didn't want to make that a habit.

He put his bag down at the bottom of the stairs. Before he would take care of that, he had to talk to Don and ask him about Charlie's condition. He went upstairs and was soon looking at the door to Don's bedroom. At the open door.

Suddenly alert and hardly feeling his exhaustion anymore, Alan hurried along the hallway and seconds later he stood in the center of his eldest son's room. "Donnie?" he called in a low voice so as not to wake up his youngest. He turned around his own axis, but that couldn't change the fact that Don wasn't here.

He checked the bathroom. "Donnie?" Nobody here either. While he went back downstairs, his confusion increased. Where was Don? Surely he hadn't left Charlie alone – after everything that had happened?

"Don!" Again, no answer. Soon, Alan had searched practically the whole house. Don wasn't here. He had indeed left Charlie alone. Alan couldn't believe it.

And if… For a moment, Alan's heart stopped beating. If something had happened? If that was why Don wasn't here, because they were gone together? Maybe they had needed to go to the hospital again or –

Before Alan could finish that thought, he was standing in front of Charlie's door and yanked it open. He had already opened his mouth, but the sight that greeted him closed his throat up tight.

There they were, both of his sons, snuggled up together in Charlie's bed. They had their eyes closed and seemed to be still asleep, with Don's arm lying protectively around Charlie's stomach and Charlie's arm on Don's, looking for assurance. It was such a peaceful image, an image of childlike innocence.

Alan smiled and could feel tears pressing against the backs of his eyes. Why had he been so worried? Why had he been so mistrustful? Why hadn't he just had confidence in Don?

The world was so good!

 _Can you see them, Margaret?_ he thought and could feel the answer: yes, she saw them. She was watching over them. She was with them all. In that moment, they all were together again.

When the first teardrop made its way down Alan's cheek, he closed the door as quietly as he could and tiptoed downstairs. He smiled at his wife's portrait, regarded the small crinkles around the corners of her smiling lips and then lay down on the couch. With the same peaceful expression on his face as his sons, he fell asleep.

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With his eyes still closed, Don stretched. At least that was what he intended to do. But something was holding him back, something at his wrist. A hand. Where did that come from?

He opened his eyes. Oh, right. Of course. Charlie.

His brother's forehead was puckered and he thought he could see movement under the eyelids, but as soon as he abandoned his attempt to free his hand, the furrows evened out.

Don smiled. It had been a long time since he'd last seen his brother so calm and relaxed, so long indeed that he was reluctant to wake him now. Charlie had gone through so much these last couple of months that he really could use some sleep, some peace – and that Don was sure of even without knowing what his brother had gone through before his amnesia. However, he also had to check in with his father to find out when exactly he needed to be picked up from the airport.

Charlie saved him from having to make a decision by waking up on his own. His eyes went through the room a bit before they fell on his older brother. "Don?" he asked and seemed quite confused.

"Surprised to see me here?" Don replied grinning.

His brother shook his head, but Don wasn't sure if that was meant as an answer to his question. "I… I thought I'd been dreaming," he mumbled, still highly confused.

"Well, as you can see, that's not the case." Don took some seconds to regard Charlie's features which had lost their peaceful expression. Nervous Charlie was back, the pale skin, the dark smudges under his eyes, the trembling lips, the quivering nasal wings, and those eyes… was that still the panic from last night?

"Are you okay?" Don asked worriedly, well aware that he could answer this question himself. He wouldn't have needed the psychological part of his training as a federal agent to determine that there was a fear that had become Charlie's constant companion.

"Yeah, sure, I'm fine."

 _Liar_ , Don thought and smiled sadly.

Charlie sat up in his bed, pushed himself some inches away from Don and got up. Only when he'd reached the door, he stood for a second, hastily explaining, "I'm going to the bathroom," and slipped out into the hallway.

Don remained sitting up on Charlie's bed and stared at the closed door, and to him it felt as if it were the door to Charlie's soul.

* * *

It was still the same morning when Don noticed that Charlie had changed. He was keeping his distance again. Don had to realize that he regretted that his father had taken a taxi from the airport. In hindsight, he realized how much he'd been looking forward to the short car ride alone with his brother.

Now, however, he'd lost any pretext, whereas the desire to spend more time with Charlie became all the stronger the more his little brother was distancing himself from him and his father. Sure, he was still polite and friendly – but that was exactly the kind of behavior that hurt him so much. Charlie was treating them like strangers again, and any progress, any kind of rapprochement that had happened since Nebraska seemed to have been annihilated again.

Don had a very distinct feeling that the cause for Charlie's new behavior lay in the events of the previous night. Charlie had loosened up more than ever before, had opened up, which he obviously regretted now. As it seemed, he didn't want to loosen up. He wanted to remain in control. He was still suffering from emotional instability and needed support, so he took every kind of support he could get, so he'd accepted Don's presence during the night. But by now, there wasn't any doubt left for Don: in reality, Charlie wanted to free himself from them, and he would do so as soon as he would find the necessary strength.

While watching his brother, Don realized what that meant: they would lose Charlie for a second time, though this time not to the realm of the dead, but to the world of the living, to a new life. Of course Don knew that this outcome was far better for his brother than the previous one, he should be glad for him. And he was, he was overjoyed that Charlie was still alive. But if they lost him now, after everything they'd gone through… For this time, it wouldn't be a tragic catastrophe, it would be Charlie's free will, his decision to let go of them. And even though Don knew that Charlie would be fine and would be perfectly healthy even if he didn't stay with them, he still knew that Charlie's voluntary leave would infinitely hurt him, probably even more than his presumed death. Despite all his strength, Don knew he couldn't bear that.

The desperation was simmering inside him, trying to get to the surface, but suddenly, there was something else, something new, yet very familiar: determination. If he couldn't bear losing Charlie again, Don thought, then he just had to make sure that Charlie decided to stay with them. After everything that had happened he wouldn't let go of his brother so easily. The previous evening had showed him what he would lose by doing so. He'd fight for him. It was true, of the two of them it was usually Charlie who did the reaching, who was openly looking for his brother's approval and affection. But it seemed as though they would have to switch roles for a change, for Don wasn't willing to just go down, to give Charlie up without a fight. He would do whatever lay in his power, and at the same time try to increase that power as much as he could.

He wouldn't lose Charlie again.

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Mike Kirtland paused. He had just inserted the data and saw at first glance that something was off. After all, he'd been performing this procedure every two weeks for several months now, even more often in the beginning, and he knew what kind of result to expect. That result, however, didn't appear on his screen this time, and he didn't know whether his first suspicion should be directed at his own mind or at the technology. For everything was as it should be with his mind – at least in his humble opinion –, but he also trusted the technology, at least as long as the technology was controlled by him. For he knew how easily technology could be outfoxed – after all, he made his living with that kind of knowledge.

So it was extremely unlikely that the result was wrong. And that in turn meant that things were far from going as they had planned. For they sure hadn't planned for the professor to be no longer in the clinic, no longer in Nebraska, but in California.

"Dan?" he called over his shoulder and distinctly noticed the uncertain tone of his voice.

"What?" The answering voice sounded a bit irritated, as it often did these days, as it had often done for several months now, since the time when everything just stopped working in favor of them.

Mike could hear footsteps coming towards him, but he didn't turn around. He had a feeling that Dan would be dangerously irritated. Daniel Rosenthal didn't become angry very often, but whenever the anger broke out and crumbled his calm façade, it was a force of nature destroying everything that crossed its way, no matter if one was responsible for the problem or not.

And Mike _wasn't_ responsible. He just did what Dan told him to do, sometimes a little more, but never less. Dan was the one responsible for everything that was going on here, even though Mike, at other times, vehemently refused to accept himself being described by the term 'henchman'. He was more than that, far more, he was a full member of their group.

The responsibility for their actions, however, lay with other members, and he was more than fine with that. He would get his piece of the cake in the end, but at the same time, he would keep the risk he inevitably had to bear to a minimum.

Now, however, that seemed to be easier said than done. The risk had increased immensely. The professor had escaped from their surveillance that had been plotted out so perfectly, and might very well be back with his family by now. In any case he had become a ticking bomb that could destroy them out of nowhere anytime. For who could say now whether or not he remembered, whether, maybe, he'd already given them information about their little project? He'd become an uncontrollable threat.

Mike swallowed before he pointed at the GPS signal and interpreted it for his colleague. "Dan, I think we got a problem."


	21. Openness and Secrecy

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1

* * *

21\. Openness and Secrecy

Things were happening at a breakneck speed now. True, they were still hoping that their cover wasn't blown yet, but with the professor back in California, that could change with any second passing. Thus it was clear that they had to go into hiding for a while. Luckily they could work on their project from almost any random place in the world.

The very same day they learned about the professor's new whereabouts, they left the headquarters that had been serving them as a base for almost a year, and the group dissolved. It was better not to be seen together for a while. They knew how to reach one another without blowing up dust, and as soon as one of them would find a solution to their problem, they would gather again someplace else, that was certain. And it was just as certain that none of them would give any information about their project to anybody on the outside; there was too much at risk for each of them.

That raised the question of how things could ever have come so far. They had seen to it that the doctor was being watched at the clinic, precisely in order to avoid the kind of development they were facing now, so what had gone wrong? They had kept themselves informed about his state of health, and his condition had never changed a lot, or in any case never improved. The doctor had remained a nervous wreck and had been so depressive that considering him to continue his job had been out of the question for the foreseeable future.

At least that was what their source had told them. But as it seemed now, their source had been feeding them insufficient, if not wrong information. It was hard to believe, but it seemed to be their best bet right now. They were only lucky that they hadn't fully relied on the nurse, but had left an ace up their sleeve. At least, regularly checking the GPS signal had warned them – hopefully in time –, but they all would have preferred it to be a futile safety measure.

 _If you think about it,_ Rosenthal mused, _we really got off with a slap on the wrist._ The damage seemed reparable. Granted, they first had to find out what was going on at the west coast. Luckily, they had an ally on site who was already taking measures. The situation was tricky, though. The professor's brother was an FBI agent – maybe they were already investigating? But surely they would have heard if that was the case, so maybe there was still time to nip things in the bud. One thing was certain: the professor had to disappear, and depending on what their enemy already knew, they would decide on the how.

In the meantime, they just had to step back and pull the strings from behind the scenes. No matter how things worked out with the professor, there would probably still be a medium-sized scandal, even though the public would probably never learn about what was going on, at least not from official authorities. But someday, as soon as the political situation had changed just slightly, only some changes in the right positions, nobody would care for their past. If their plan worked the way they intended, they could look into the future not merely carefree, but full of expectation.

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Charlie had retreated to the bathroom again and was staring at his reflection. It was early afternoon now and thus it was time for his appointment with Dr. Bradford. Compared to his feelings the previous evening, Charlie's pleasant anticipation had receded vastly. Granted, the mere thought of another session didn't bear anything alarming, on the contrary, but having another session also meant that he had to tell Don that he would rather go there alone.

"Charlie, you coming? We should get going now if we don't wanna be late."

He could hear Don's steps receding downstairs, sighed deeply, sprinkled some water in his pale face and unlocked the door.

"I'd like to go to Dr. Bradford alone today," he informed the two of them when he'd arrived downstairs.

Alan first looked at him, then at Don, and Charlie was relieved. His father apparently didn't consider the sessions his immediate responsibility, and thus at least wasn't opposed to Charlie's request.

Much in contrast to Don. "Alone?" He seemed hurt and completely unable to understand. "Why?"

"Well, Don can at least drive you there, right?" Alan postponed the conversation with a look at the clock. He too wasn't feeling all that comfortable with Charlie's idea, but he was once again reminded of Dr. Andrews' words: time and space. Those were the things Charlie needed most right now, and Alan would do anything to help his son get on his feet and into their lives again. Even if they had to act against common sense for that.

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They had hardly left the house when Charlie realized that he'd approached the subject too soon. This way, Don had the whole ride to the doctor's office at his disposal to bug him about the reasons for his decision.

"Why don't you want me there with you anymore, Charlie?" He hesitated, but Charlie's hope that he would let it go didn't last long. "Don't you trust me anymore?"

"Of course I do," came the quiet reply.

Don was so surprised, albeit delighted by the answer that he almost lost control over his SUV. He managed both to get his head back together and to swallow down a "Really?" before he continued his interrogation. "So why not?"

"Just because. Can we please talk about something else now?"

"I just want to understand you, Charlie. Can't you just tell me why my being there would suddenly bother you?" Again he hesitated, then continued in a lower voice (even though there was nobody there to overhear them), "Are you… did you do something illegal?"

Charlie was silent. He hadn't even considered that. _Had_ he done something illegal? "No," he finally replied. "I don't think so."

"Then why? I mean, if you trust me" – and Don would sure as hell stay content with that statement and not question it _ever_ –, "then why can't I stay during the session? I'm just saying, after what happened last time –"

"Didn't it occur to you that maybe this is _because_ of what happened last time?" Charlie snapped. "Now can we _please_ change the subject?" He turned his head and stared out of the window with unseeing eyes. He was sorry to have reacted in such an irritated manner, but talking about the upcoming session and about how he felt about Don… well, it wasn't all that easy. Maybe the snapping would at least make his brother leave him alone now.

Indeed, Don was rendered silent for some minutes. When he started talking again, he broadly avoided the upcoming session. However, neither of them could miss the fact of how incredibly stiff their conversation was compared to their animated discussion of the previous evening.

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Bradford was surprised, yet pleased when Don remained waiting outside. Charlie seemed to have made that decision on his own, and that not only meant that he was slowly regaining a real identity, but also that they would finally be able to have a real, productive session without Charlie being rendered nervous and secretive by his brother's presence.

"Is there anything specific you'd like to discuss today?" Bradford started.

"No, not really," Charlie replied, though he couldn't look into the therapist's eyes when he said it. Bradford seemed to realize that Charlie was once again not being completely honest, and remained silent.

Eventually, Charlie pulled himself together. He knew that he could only make progress if he gave his doctor the means and opportunity to help him. "There's a… an image, if you can call it that, which… I think it may be causing the nightmares. For the most part."

"Okay. Describe it to me."

"I can't."

"Come on, Charlie. We both know that you can."

Charlie swallowed. "It's Don," he began, wondering how he could ever manage to describe the image with all its horrors, with all the feelings associated with it, with all the tremors it sent down his spine. "He… he's dead."

Charlie was silent for so long that Bradford felt compelled to ask further questions. "How do you know he's dead?"

"He… he's bleeding. He was shot. He's wearing his FBI jacket and you can see the blood on it. And he's lying on the ground and not moving anymore." Charlie noticed his breathing increase again. He just couldn't take it, it couldn't be true, Don was alive, he was dead…

"It's okay, Charlie, just calm down. I'm sure there is a completely logical explanation for why you keep seeing that image. And as you said before, it's just an image from your nightmares which –"

"No!" Charlie contradicted with some force. "It wasn't a nightmare, it was real! I _actually_ saw it, in real life!"

Bradford frowned. "Charlie… are you sure of that?"

"Yes! I mean… I don't know…" Given that he still didn't know whether he'd lost his mind, how could he be sure whether or not he was hallucinating?

"Alright, let's start at the beginning: when did you see that image for the first time?"

"I only saw it once, in reality I mean. When I was kept captive. The other times I only dreamed of it. Then I forgot about it, that is… I still knew that there was something there, but I didn't know what it was. Then, when Don and my Dad came to the clinic, the image was suddenly there again, but then it was gone, and somehow I couldn't even make a connection between the image and Don."

"So since you've been staying at the clinic, you've been dreaming of an event that you witnessed while you were held captive, am I stating this correctly?"

"Yeah – no… that is, maybe I've been dreaming of it even before the clinic, I don't know. But I'm certain I've been dreaming of it since then. Sometimes, the image was slightly different and sometimes it changed during the dream, but that one time, I actually saw it." _And I'm never going to forget about it_ , he silently added and had to swallow again.

"But you remember having been kept captive?"

"Yeah. But I don't know where, or by whom."

Considering Charlie's careful choice of words, Bradford would have liked asking whether his patient could remember the why, but he didn't want to stray too far from the topic. "And how did it come about that you saw Don?"

Charlie thought for a minute. He had even closed his eyes, although that didn't make him look more peaceful, rather on the contrary. "They showed him to me," he finally said. His voice had become much quieter, it was almost a whisper now, and it was trembling slightly. "They led me out of my cell so I could see him. He wasn't moving and there was the blood on his jacket… Then they started… kicking him and then… then they shot him, again. In the head. They wanted to show me beyond a doubt that he was dead." He swallowed again, and his next words were so low they were hardly audible. "They were trying to break me."

 _And it worked_ , Bradford noted to himself, but thought it wiser not to verbalize his thoughts towards his patient. Instead, he tried to resolve the image. "How do you know that the body is Don?"

"I recognized him," Charlie said, slightly surprised. That was a weird question to ask. It was obvious it had been Don, it had been clear all along, in fact it seemed to be the _only_ thing that was clear. He'd seen him himself, after all, plus… "They told me it was Don."

 _Now things might get interesting,_ Bradford thought. "You are mixing two distinct propositions, Charlie. Did you recognize Don by yourself or did someone tell you it was him? What distance was there between you and the corpse?"

"About… twenty yards, I guess."

"And you recognized him from that distance?" Bradford couldn't help himself, he was reminded of the interrogations of his time as a cop. Just that this time, he was hoping his questions would help his collocutor.

"Yeah well, he's my brother, after all…"

"Did you see his face?"

"No, of course not, he was lying with his back towards me. But the hair and the stature were the same. Besides, he was wearing his FBI clothing."

"Only the clothing? Without the bulletproof vest?"

"No! If he had worn that, he wouldn't…" Charlie had to swallow. "They couldn't have…" He fell silent. He couldn't go on.

For Bradford, the case was clear now. There was only one thing he had to make sure, "You're saying you actually saw that scenario, Charlie? You're sure it wasn't just a nightmare?"

"No! I already told you! The nightmares only came after… after that image." Charlie felt betrayed. He should have known that Bradford wouldn't believe him, he'd just been hoping –

"Alright then, Charlie, I think I know how we can explain the matter. For I think we can agree on the fact that Don isn't dead, but sitting out there in the waiting area."

"But I'm telling you, it wasn't just a nightmare!"

"I'm not arguing about that. But considering in how frail a state your mind must have been at that time, I don't find it hard to believe that you fell victim to an illusion."

"An illusion?" Charlie remained mistrustful; he wasn't sure whether he really wanted to hear the doctor's explanation. An illusion – did Bradford mean a hallucination? Was he crazy after all?

"As you stated yourself, your opponents were trying to weaken you mentally and emotionally. I can't tell you why they chose Don for their plans or how they gathered the necessary knowledge and utensils, but if you ask me, it's beyond a doubt that they put those FBI clothes onto another corpse and made you think it was your brother in order to demoralize you. And I think that Don's presence in my office is rather conclusive evidence for my theory."

Charlie just stared at the therapist, hearing the words, yet not sure whether he was understanding him right, whether his mind was working correctly. It was that easy? Don… he was alive, he'd never been dead? It had just been another corpse?

"But it was Don…" Charlie's protest was weak, but it was there.

"That's what your opponents impressed upon you, Charlie. Given the circumstances, you were bound to believe them, and thus it became an irrefutable truth in your mind. Nonetheless, this 'truth' is false, Charlie. I'll gladly repeat it for you: the dead body you saw was not Don."

Charlie was still having a hard time to fathom that. "But then… then it wasn't my fault?"

"Well, your brother's death certainly wasn't."

"Okay," Charlie said. He still seemed quite overwhelmed. "Okay, then. Um… thanks." He stood.

"You're welcome to stay for another bit, Charlie. We still have some minutes left."

"No." Charlie still seemed a bit confused. "No, I guess I'd rather be alone right now."

Bradford nodded. That was something he could understand and had to accept. Maybe Charlie was right. In his overwhelmed state, there wasn't much Bradford could do for him that Charlie couldn't do, maybe even better, on his own. He did have all the facts now, he just had to grow accustomed to them. And since he needed time to do that, Bradford also refrained from urging his patient to do what he couldn't without infringing doctor-patient confidentiality, namely tell his brother – or anyone in law enforcement – about the dead body. For if there had really been one, a crime had been committed, and the authorities had to be notified. However, Bradford successfully convinced himself that waiting for another weekend didn't make much difference seeing that half a year had already elapsed since the event.

"Alright… in that case I'll see you again next week." Bradford hesitated. Considering the circumstances, he would have liked to postpone today's Friday to a later date. "I would have liked to have another one or two sessions with you during the weekend, but unfortunately, I'll be out of town… I could refer you to one of my colleagues, though."

"No, thanks. I guess it may be a good idea for me to just think about it all on my own for a while."

Whether that reasoning could also be applied to an entire weekend, Bradford wasn't so sure of, but in the end, it was his patient's decision. "Alright, Charlie. Take care until then. Remember you can call me anytime if there's an emergency."

Charlie nodded and left the treatment room. Dr. Bradford's concerned eyes were glued to his back.

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Juan Juarez waited until the old man left the house as well and drove off in his car. True, there was still a car parked in front of the house, a blue Prius, but from his employers, Juan had learned that with all probability, there were currently living only three people in this house, and the other two, the younger men, had left the house roughly an hour ago. Why did three people of the same family need three cars? L.A. would never seize to amaze him.

Juan didn't know much about them, but he had all the facts that were necessary to perform his task. The older man had to be the father, the other two his sons. The younger one of them was the one his friends, his employers, were interested in. It was him that they wanted to spy upon. Why – that was something Juan didn't know. And he didn't care.

The pieces of information they had given him were too scarce to determine where the three men had gone and when they would return. They could have gone to work just as easily as to buy groceries, yes, they might even have gone on a weekend trip, after all, it was Friday.

He sighed. It seemed as though he didn't have a choice, he had to take some risk. He made sure that there were no pedestrians or curious window-nazis to be seen before he slid out of his vehicle which he had parked within sight of the Eppes house, yet not too close, at the opposite side of the street.

His uniform was black and wore the logo of a company that didn't exist. It identified itself as a private parcel delivery enterprise and in Juan's mind, it was an ideal disguise.

He rang the bell. Nobody opened. He refrained from calling out – that might direct the neighbors' attention towards him – and rounded the house as if he was looking for someone. In reality, he was looking for the back door. It was not only easier to crack than the front door (even that one probably wouldn't have been a problem for him), it was also more secluded and shielded from possible glances of curious neighbors. Plus, he probably would have left marks if he had chosen the front door, even if it would have been only tiny scratches. Here, at the back door, he managed to avoid that.

The lock clicked and Juan quietly entered the house. He took a look around and his trained eyes immediately recognized the living room as the center of the house. Therefore, his first bug was put here, behind the clock on the wall. Another bug was pinned into the angle of a leg under the top of the dining room table. Another one disappeared in a hidden corner above a wall cupboard in the kitchen. Kitchens were always a popular place for conversations that shouldn't be overheard by other persons in the house. Well, this way he made sure that they could be overheard by persons _outside_ the house.

Juan took a quick glance upstairs, but there were only single bedrooms here, no place where the probability of conversation was very high. What remained was the phone. Deftly and skillfully, Juan removed the casing and put a fourth bug directly next to the microphone of the receiver before he put the casing back in its place.

He glanced around one last time, scrutinizing. There was no indication he had been here, as though a ghost had entered. Satisfied, he left the house through the back door and was about to return to the street when he saw the car with the two brothers enter the driveway and pulled back quickly.

He pressed his thin body against the wall of the house and hardly dared to breathe. Around the corner, he could hear the two men get out and the car doors fall shut. Apparently they hadn't seen him.

"So can you tell me now what's going on? Why didn't you want me in there with you? I mean, you didn't seem to have a problem with it the last two times."

"Don…" That sounded a bit exasperated. "Look, I'm sorry, I know this must be hard on you and Dad, but… just give me a little time, okay? You can stop worrying about me, I'm confident that everything will go back to normal, I'm just… It's a bit much right now." He paused for the length of a heartbeat. "I'm going to the garage." Steps receded, then halted and the voice sounded again, "Please don't be angry with me. Okay?"

Juan thought the other one would never answer, but then he could barely hear a subdued, "'Course not", before the steps went away for good, away from him, thank G-d.

The other steps approached the front door. A key was turned in the lock, the door opened and fell shut again.

It was only then that Juan dared to take a real, deep breath again. He squatted down and carefully spied around the corner. No, nobody to be seen. The coast was clear.

And as unnoticed at he'd come, Juan disappeared from Pasadena.


	22. Observations

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1, **warning:** little spoilers for several episodes of seasons 1, 2 and 3.

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22\. Observations

When Charlie had stepped out of the treatment room and into the waiting area, Don had jumped up both nervously and eagerly, but on the whole ride home he hadn't been able to get anything out of him but a few words. He could only hope that this kind of pensiveness would wear off during the weekend, for starting Monday, he'd be back in the office and wouldn't see Charlie half as much as he saw him now. Of course, their father was still there, but even though his mind was telling Don that there was no need to worry, he just couldn't get rid of the desire to be there for his brother himself.

On both weekend days, both the team and Larry and Amita came over to the Craftsman. And even though Charlie was still uncommonly quiet, he seemed to be thawing a bit. He seemed a bit more familiar with everyone, although Don still noticed a certain guardedness in Charlie's interactions with him. He tried to tell himself that there was nothing there, that Charlie was treating him just like everyone else – but it didn't work. He had a feeling that Charlie was avoiding him – no, that wasn't quite true, it rather seemed as though Charlie tried to establish contact with him, but then shrank back every time. It was those failed attempts that hurt Don more than anything else.

Friday was the first time he went for a walk.

Don and Alan were surprised when he told them about his intention, thereby revealing the fact that he managed to free himself both from the garage and from the koi pond. Maybe he was also escaping the spatial restrictedness of the two locations. In any case it soon became apparent that he was escaping from the people around him, namely when Don asked him whether it wouldn't be better if he accompanied him.

"No, Don, I need to do this on my own."

Don was once again reminded of his 'time-and-space'-mantra, but that didn't make his concerns dissipate. "But what if you can't find your way back?"

Charlie eyed him skeptically. "Okay, first of all: I'm not stupid. Secondly, I could ask for directions. And thirdly: this is where I grew up, Don. I know my way around here."

Don wouldn't have thought it was possible, but he'd indeed found a case where he would have preferred Charlie to remember less rather than more.

"And what about your foot? I thought you were supposed to be careful with that."

"The cuts have almost healed. The sutures won't break open just by that little bit of walking."

As always, it was Alan who found a solution they could both live with. "Here," he said to his youngest, putting Charlie's old cell phone in his hand. "Call us if you need anything. I guess you remember the number of the landline?"

Since Alan was smiling, Charlie too could bring himself to flash a grin. "Of course."

"Well, then it's settled." He gave his eldest a brief glance, and his features were confirming his own desire. "Oh, and Charlie? Please stay available for us."

Don wouldn't have needed the ensuing private conversation with his father to know that Charlie was a grown man (alright, maybe it wasn't such a bad idea to remind him once in a while). However, the conversation also made it occur to him how difficult such things had to be for a father, and how much trust they had to place in their children to be able to let them go.

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The streets and the houses made a pleasantly familiar impression on him. He knew his way around these streets, more than that, this was where he felt at home. He'd grown up here and he belonged here, and whatever might happen, he would always consider this place his home.

And by and by… yeah, by and by everything seemed to be coming into place. Don wasn't dead. Therefore, his death couldn't be Charlie's fault, for his brother hadn't been killed because he had been looking for him. Don was alive, he was actually alive, Dr. Bradford said so, too. And he'd given him a completely logical explanation for everything that had been confusing him. All of a sudden, everything fit together. It was true, and it was so simple, and he hadn't lost his mind.

A still slightly cautious feeling of elation was spreading inside him. Yes, by now he'd examined Bradford's explanation from every angle and found it had to be true, but still he had difficulty believing it. It was so liberating that it almost made him feel lost. It seemed as though a ton's weight had been lifted from his soul and he couldn't figure out where it had gone, couldn't fathom that the solution had been so ridiculously simple. The truth – no, the lie, what they'd made him believe had been a lie – was rooted so deeply within him that getting rid of it wasn't that easy. But sooner or later, the remnants of that weed would die and stop pestering him, Charlie was sure of it. He just had to let himself believe in the truth, the real truth, he just had to tell himself again and again that in reality, everything was fine. He just had to believe in it.

He arrived at the small park with its old, mighty trees, where he and Don had played so often during their childhood. Sure, it hadn't taken long until time and everything else had let them drift apart, but in his mind, Charlie could still find images of family picnics, of playing with childhood friends.

He entered the park which had always been a bit more natural, a bit more entwined than others. The paths were partially overshadowed by twigs of trees and bushes. There had always been a certain magic to this place.

When the bench came into Charlie's line of sight, he immediately felt magically attracted to it and sat down. It was already a bit weathered, but from here, he had a wonderful view over the park. And a wonderful view into the past.

Here it was he'd sat with Amita. She'd still been his student, and since his office had been freshly painted, they had discussed her doctoral thesis at his house. And when they had needed a break, they had come here.

Amita had been about to finish her thesis and they both had been hoping that time would fly faster. For both had realized already then that there was something evolving between them, and both had wanted it to become more. True, the thesis had allowed them to spend more time together, but it had also prohibited them to show their affection freely.

He missed her. He would have liked to have her with him now, her head against his shoulder, his arm around her body. He loved her.

Charlie stood, but the feeling persisted and continued persisting, and it had been persisting all the time, even though he hadn't been conscious of it during the past few months. Now, that cold period was over. He loved Amita, he remembered it, and it almost seemed as though with every step he took he could remember more moments they had lived together.

Charlie smiled slightly as he stepped out of the shadows of the trees and into the vernal sun. Oh yes, it seemed as though his memory was slowly coming back. The sun was shining in his life again, and he could finally leave the darkness behind.

* * *

Concerning regaining knowledge about his relations with other people, his walks during the weekend helped him a lot. Concerning finding out what had happened during his captivity, the garage was more helpful, and maybe that was the reason why he was avoiding the place. It might not have been completely rational, but he preferred thinking about all those people that were dear to him over thinking about the time he'd spent alone in some hidden corner of the world.

And slowly, the memories were coming back. It was amazing, it almost seemed as though with every minute passing, he could remember more and more of his old life. He remembered his time in Princeton, he remembered Larry as his professor, later Larry as his mentor and finally Larry as his friend. He remembered conversations that had taken place between them, so often spirited and uplifting, and he remembered the just as helpful silence when he'd quietly sat in Larry's office few days after his mother's death.

The images of her were the only ones he'd remembered even before his return, although the memories of her illness strangely seemed to have hidden in the background. What was new in these images was the smiling man at her side.

He couldn't wish for a better father than Alan. His dad cared for him, but usually left him all the space and freedom he needed. And Charlie remembered it. He remembered the feelings of comfort and home he associated with his dad, more than that, he didn't just remember, he felt them again. They were back, almost the same way they had been before, only that now Charlie could appreciate them even more. He remembered conversations he'd had with his dad, some of them meaningful discussions, some of them pleasantly meaningless talking that gained so much in importance exactly by being so mundane. And the fact that Charlie had been trying so hard to learn during the past few days now almost came to him by itself: Alan was his dad. He wasn't just anyone, not a stranger who wanted to help him, not a friendly old host, but his father, a parent, the man who had begotten him, raised him, and offered him his support during his entire life.

He didn't just think about the regaining of his father, though. There was Don, as well.

Sure, when he thought about Don's job, the memories weren't really a problem. He thought of the conference rooms and the team, of the sometimes concentrated, sometimes bored, and often confused looks on their faces. He remembered the cases he had helped them on. No, taken by itself, Don's job was safe ground.

Except when he thought of the FBI jacket.

Charlie knew that Don wasn't dead, he knew it, it was a certainty he was firmly believing in. His emotions, however, weren't prepared to succumb to his logic yet and continued to play up whenever his brother got into the focus of his thoughts.

And it was Don who was throwing him completely. If Charlie grounded his reasoning on his memories, Don's actions in dealing with him didn't make any sense. So maybe his memory wasn't working as well as he was hoping? For he could remember countless events between them… Don's reaction when he'd come into his class, in their senior year in high-school… the way Don rolled his eyes when Charlie started talking about numbers or was at the center of attention or just wanted to belong to the group… that time in the garage when Don had yelled at him because he was hiding in the P versus NP problem instead of standing by their mom…

Charlie swallowed, not really sure whether he should be glad to have back the memories of those events that he'd have rather made undone. In any case they made him confused, for if they were real, then he couldn't for the life of him understand Don's sudden show of affection towards him. Granted, during the last couple of years, their relationship had improved, but not in this manner and certainly not in this intensity, and it had only been because of their working together. Don had just tolerated him because he'd realized that the mathematical baubles of his geeky little brother weren't just useless rubbish. Sure, sometimes Charlie had thought they were getting closer, but that had only been wishful thinking… right?

Other memories occurred to him. Don's sudden understanding for Charlie's worry about him when he'd been shot at that bank robbery more than two years ago, and how they'd actually been able to work together as brothers after that… then the panic in Don's eyes when he'd almost been shot by a sniper… And yeah, also during the time directly before his involuntary disappearance, when everything had gone haywire, they seemed to have gotten closer to each other on a deeper level, when Don's former colleague had seemingly committed suicide, at the rampage at the FBI headquarters, when the Russian Mob had targeted them, when Megan had been abducted…

So maybe Don's behavior wasn't that incomprehensible after all, maybe there was still nothing wrong with his mind, maybe his memory was indeed coming back without feeding him wrong information. But he still couldn't be certain, he had to observe just a little while longer, just to make sure that he wasn't referring to a past that was only his hallucination. He couldn't have another disaster like the one when he'd accused Don of not being his brother. There was only so much his family could take.

So he kept observing. Sometimes, it felt like he was sitting on a powder keg, but he forced himself to remain calm on the outside. Even if his memory was indeed back to working order, he still didn't know if everything was the way he remembered. More than half a year had passed, half a year, at that, during which they had thought he would never come back. Who knew what might have changed? So his decision was firm, he couldn't lay his cards on the table just yet. He first had to determine whether the tables hadn't turned on him.

It was hard, sure. Playing the role of the observer and remaining calm on the outside meant that he could neither get closer to them nor open himself up to them. A bit of closeness, a bit of openness he allowed himself, there wasn't really a way to avoid that anyway, but as much as he was able to, he kept his distance.

Especially with Amita it was difficult. He longed so much to be close to her and show her that he was still feeling about her the same way as before, but he didn't dare to. He just kept watching her closely. Sometimes, their gazes met, and both of them blushed to the roots of their hair. Still, Charlie wasn't sure. Did Amita still love him, the way she had before? Or had she decided that she preferred a life without him? Maybe she had already found someone else? After all, she had thought he was dead, she must have considered herself free, and she was a very attractive woman. Sure, until now nobody had mentioned anything about a new boyfriend, but that could have been purely due to being considerate or due to mere coincidence.

If it was difficult with Amita, it was almost impossible with Don. Charlie just didn't know what to do. On the one hand, he was overjoyed that everything was okay now, and he wanted to be close to his brother again. On the other hand, he just didn't manage to even look at Don without that horrifying image popping up in front of his eyes. Sure, by now he knew that the body wasn't Don, but the possibility that it could have been him and the memory of having it believed for so long still made nausea rise inside him. But Charlie wasn't about to give up hope just yet. He was confident that he would be able to treat Don normally again, he only had to internalize the truth about what had happened at the time.

Only sometimes he doubted he would ever be able to do that. And he realized that he would probably never be able to as long as he kept shutting parts of his memory out. Something inside him was urging him to explore everything, to refrain from being content with the puzzle pieces he already had. Another part of him needed more time to come to terms with the pieces he'd found so far. Therefore, Charlie chose a compromise: he decided to cut himself some slack, to get acquainted to all the new memories, and talk about it with Bradford first thing during their session on Monday.

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The conversation on this sunny Sunday afternoon had primarily revolved around work. Don, Amita and Larry had talked about cases on which Charlie had helped as well. Alan had tried to gauge his youngest's reactions, which under the circumstances hadn't been all that easy for him. For here, he learned about events of which he hadn't ever heard mention even a single word. Of course, he'd already heard of a couple of situations when his sons had been in danger, but he'd at least heard about them immediately after the fact. Here, he listened to stories that had happened more than half a year ago and which, until now, nobody had thought necessary to tell him about.

Thus, Alan wasn't entirely sure with his diagnosis. He thought that Charlie was calmer now, not as tense anymore, and he showed more readiness to insert himself into the conversation, especially when they started talking about the mathematical methods they'd used, but at the same time, he still seemed withdrawn and quiet and observing, as though everything was still unfamiliar to him.

In any event it was time for a heart-to-heart talk between father and son.

They went into the kitchen and left the other three in the living room alone with their conversation. Alan watched his son's features, trying to determine what he was thinking about this whole situation, but of course, the direct approach would be more fruitful. "So? What do you think?"

Don sighed. "I don't know. I can't… I can't really figure out what's going on in his mind." He had hesitated and Alan knew why. He knew that it wasn't easy for Don to admit that, this alienation. For both of them, Charlie used to be an open book. Now it was closed.

"Do you think he's hiding something from us? That he remembers and doesn't tell us?"

Don massaged the bridge of his nose. "I really don't know, Dad. I mean, we're still like strangers to him. We probably shouldn't be surprised if he doesn't tell us everything that's on his mind. And I really believe that Bradford had some success with helping him remember."

"So the sessions went well?"

Don sighed. "I think so," he said eventually, and Alan decided to drop the subject. He remembered only too well how little Don had understood why it was so important for Charlie to go through with the therapy on his own. Not that both he and Don, after everything that had happened, couldn't do with some therapy as well.

To Alan's surprise, it was Don who wouldn't let go of the subject 'therapy'. "Maybe we'll learn more tomorrow. This time, at least, he can be reassured that I won't be anywhere near his session. Maybe then he'll finally talk to us."

Alan couldn't miss the new bitterness in Don's words. With an uneasy feeling in his stomach, he wondered how things would progress if Charlie, even after tomorrow's session, continued not to talk to them.

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"Something's up?" Daniel Rosenthal asked when Cedric Patter waved him over. Patter nodded while continuing to listen to the conversation between the two men, and wordlessly handed Rosenthal the second pair of headphones. They had settled in amazingly quickly in their new headquarters and by now had set up almost all the equipment they needed.

Rosenthal put on the headphones and heard a man's voice he'd heard multiple times during the last two days: Don Eppes, the professor's older brother.

" _I think so_. _"_ There was a short pause, which was enough to increase Rosenthal's impatience. Woe be to Patter if he hadn't called him for something important. _"Maybe we'll learn more tomorrow. This time, at least, he can be reassured that I won't be anywhere near his session. Maybe then he'll finally talk to us."_

" _You've got to give him some more time, Donnie."_ That was the father, Alan. _"You can't take it personally if he's a bit…"_

Rosenthal let him talk and put the headphones down. "That was it?" he asked Patter. "That's why you called me?" That conversation seemed decidedly too sentimental to bear anything of relevance.

Patter, too, set down his headphones now, wondering if he should listen to the record of the rest of the conversation later. "Yeah," he said, and hardly even tried to suppress the belligerent tone in his voice. "Didn't you listen? The professor's going back to the psychiatrist tomorrow. Aside from the fact that he's already been there Friday when your friend deployed the bugs, which can't be good for us –"

"Why can't that be good for us?" Rosenthal interrupted him. "He's no use to us if he's a nervous wreck, maybe the psychiatrist isn't such a bad idea."

"But as a nervous wreck, the professor's not a threat to us."

"You don't know that. Crazy people can be chatty, too. So why did you call me?"

"You really didn't listen, did you? Eppes seems to be starting to remember, so maybe he also remembers what we did – but he's not telling anyone. Until now. But if that psychiatrist talks to him again tomorrow, that could change pretty quickly."

Rosenthal thought for a second. He hadn't caught that. It was a good thing that he had a team whose members were excellently versed in their respective fields and quick-thinking on top of that. Otherwise, their mission would have been doomed to failure right from the beginning. Not that Rosenthal would have ever admitted how much their success depended on every single team member. They already knew that better than they should. But in the end, it was he who kept an overview of everything that was going on and who thus could assess best which measures were good for their plans and which weren't.

"So what are we going to do now?" Patter asked, and Rosenthal was filled with a feeling of satisfaction. Yeah, Patter might be invaluable in respect of technical gadgets, but he was still the one who made the plans.

"We'll have to remove him from the equation."

"You wanna kill him?"

Rosenthal shook his head. "No, that would be a waste. And counterproductive; we can allow ourselves now less than ever that someone starts poking around just because a body turns up somewhere. We have to try including him in our team again. Otherwise all the trouble we had with him would have been in vain."

"But he won't be willing to come back."

"Who said we would give him a choice?" Rosenthal asked maliciously.

"You wanna kidnap him?"

Rosenthal grinned. He already had his own little idea. "Something like that."


	23. Welcome Back

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1  
 **A/N:** Wow, thanks a lot for your kind reviews and your support! They mean a lot to me.

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23\. Welcome Back

Anna Silversteen closed the door behind her, sighing heavily. Letting out her breath, a wide grin spread on her face. She was still so happy with her new apartment. Not because it was in a very good neighborhood or because it was very luxurious. No, it was a rather small apartment, tastefully furnished, but it was nothing special, at least not to other people. To her, however, it was a dream come true. It was a place of her own, a new place, in a new city, full of new opportunities. She was finally completely independent from her parents or anyone else for that matter, and she was free. She had a new job that she liked and which was paid sufficiently well. She had left everything behind that had been a nuisance to her, and had only stayed in contact with a few close friends. Everything that she had no use for anymore had been banished. She had a new life.

It had been about time. She wouldn't have survived much longer among those crazy people. When she was younger, she had always wanted to help others and had been an ardent advocate for the weaker members of society, always claiming that mentally unstable people had a right to be cared for, too. Soon, however, she had realized that the job hadn't been right for her. She had been about to go crazy herself.

Then, just at the right time, John Doe had made his offer. She didn't know his real name, but in exchange for the money he offered, she had complied willingly to participate in this John-Doe-secrecy-stuff. Neither did she know how the man had found her or why he'd chosen her of all the people working at the clinic, but she didn't really care. Maybe he'd just taken a look at her bank accounts; in her imagination she had no problem seeing that sinister looking business-guy doing something like that. Everything she'd cared for had been the money she received for her task – and that had been ridiculously easy, considering the amount of her payment.

She had merely been obliged to report the progress of one of her patients. And that she'd done. She had told them how he'd become depressive and that he still didn't remember. In turn she had received her payment, very comfortably and exempt from tax directly on her bank account.

For Anna, the assignment had come at precisely the right moment in her life. She had started to hate her job. She had been in a foul mood often and hadn't been able to get herself to do anything after work. Since she found herself much too young for a midlife-crisis, she had intended to take the necessary action and make a whole fresh start, and John Doe's payment had been the ideal starting capital.

Since after the initial contact everything had been dealt with over the phone, she had continued her assignment even after quitting her job at the clinic. She still had a friend over there who, when asked, had told her everything she needed to know. But other than that, she had simply told John Doe fairy tales. After all, he couldn't verify them.

She grinned, thinking of the performances she had delivered over the phone: _No, Mr. Doe, I'm sorry. He's still depressive, and that doesn't seem to change, he's so pensive, shutting everyone out, not talking to anyone… Yes, maybe he'll have to go back to the hospital if things keep deteriorating like that… No, he remembers absolutely nothing… Of course I'll notify you as soon as anything changes._

She had his number, but until now, she had always waited for him to call her. _After all, nothing ever happened_ , Anna thought, still grinning.

She felt a bit of regret that it was over now, but at least she was completely free now, and the money had been enough to establish a new, although humble life. At least a life without crazy people.

It had been last week that she had decided to stop this game. She had tossed her phone away, transferred all her money onto another bank account and terminated her old one. John Doe had no opportunity to find her now, she was rid of him and didn't have to get in contact with him ever again. It hurt a bit to relinquish her source of income, but it was the reasonable thing to do. Her friend from the clinic had called her last week and told her that her patient had returned home. He still hadn't been able to remember everything, but that could only be a matter of time and Anna didn't want to take any risks. After all, who knew what this John Doe was after and what was behind this whole story and what would happen when Michael finally remembered? No, it had been the right decision to put an end to this affair.

Anna made herself comfortable on her new couch, pulled her new cell out of her pocket to call her new acquaintance – could it really become a new, solid relationship? – and pulled herself out of her memories and back into her new life.

3-1-4-1-5-9-2-6-5-3-5-8-9-7-9-3-2-3-8-4-6

They were all in a good mood when Larry and Amita picked Charlie up on Monday morning. It was only then that they realized that they had never done this before, go to CalSci together, but they all thought they wouldn't object to doing it again in the future. And all three were hoping that this trip would trigger some memories for Charlie, or at least confirm them.

After a short stop at Charlie's physician, who removed the sutures from his foot, the campus came into sight, and Charlie felt a wave of relief the size of a small tsunami wash over him. Everything was exactly like it was in his memory, nothing had changed, and there was nothing he had merely imagined.

It wasn't until they got out of the car before Amita dared asking: "Do you recognize it?"

Charlie breathed in the crisp morning air, relishing the sight, and nodded.

Amita and Larry were beaming, but couldn't find words to express their joy, so Charlie good-naturedly broke the silence. "And now what? Do you want to put down roots out here or shouldn't we rather go inside? I was under the illusion you had lectures to give?" Although Charlie, with a glance at his watch, realized they still had almost half an hour left.

The university's halls were a challenge and Charlie's good mood decreased some. Eyes and whispers followed them everywhere, fingers were pointed at him, and hushed exclamations of amazement were uttered everywhere he went. Charlie didn't have a hard time figuring out why: it hadn't been made public that he was still dwelling among the living. Still, he would have been glad to do without the curious and penetrating looks, especially since they also came from students he had never seen before. Yes, there was a familiar face here and there, but with a lot of faces he just wasn't sure if he recognized them, and with a lot of unfamiliar faces he wondered if he shouldn't know them after all.

The three of them came to a halt in front of the door to an office that Charlie knew very well. It was his office.

Amita knocked and he could sense their tense looks upon him, those gauging gazes wondering whether he remembered or not.

"Come in!" a dull voice resounded from within, and while they stepped into the office, images of those countless times Charlie had stepped through this door appeared in front of his inner eye, images of those times when this action had been performed without thinking, just an inconspicuous procedure that now, however, meant so much to him, now that he was certain to find something he remembered –

It was different.

It wasn't the sight he'd expected. For a moment he was sure that his heart was about to stop beating. Everything was different… Well, okay, the furniture was still the way it was in his memory, and there were some rough similarities, but all the personal things…

Personal. That was it. The things in here weren't his, of course not, they belonged to the current owner of the office, that was conceivable, logical, it didn't exclude that his memory provided him with true information and with true information only.

"A wonderful good morning to you, Charles! You cannot imagine how marvelous it is to see you alive and well!"

It was not until now that Charlie paid attention to the man in front of him. He was elderly, in his late sixties, though he still seemed quite vigorous. His hair was gray, but both the degree of boldness and the amount of lines on his face were limited, and his eyes still held an intelligent and alert look. His movements too were quick and efficient when he stepped forward towards Charlie, extending his hand. "You probably don't remember me," he added with an apologetic smile, "I'm –"

But Charlie interrupted him. "No, I remember you." Three persons held their breath. Was it possible –? "Walter Bell; you were teaching mathematics here. You've been in retirement for three or four semesters, but you came back when CalSci couldn't find a temporary replacement quickly enough when I… had to leave…"

Charlie hesitated. The memory was back. He remembered that he'd been about to start for a mission, and that CalSci had pulled Walter Bell out of his retirement for the month that Charlie would probably be gone. And then he'd left, with men in suits, and then…

He realized that the others were staring at him in silence, and fear settled in again inside him. Was he mistaken? Wasn't this man his former colleague Walter? Had he gotten it wrong again? Did he imagine false memories to be true?

He swallowed. "Is there… is something wrong?"

The silence was replaced by relief. "No, of course not, Charlie, everything's fine," Amita said, still sounding a bit unbelieving.

"More than that," Larry added. "Everything you've said is correct."

Bell's smile grew wider. "Considering the circumstances, I can assure you that I feel honored by being remembered by you."

Charlie smiled back, but more for being polite. He didn't know why he could remember Walter Bell of all people. He didn't have a close relationship with the man; they were colleagues, that was all. But he didn't want to complain. His memory matched what the others told him, that was enough reason for him to doubt his mind a little less.

"I'm sorry," Walter now said after a short glance at his watch. "I'll have to go to my class now. You may join me, if you want; it's your sophomores."

"No, thanks," Charlie said, still polite and still rather formal. He could do without the masses of people and the curious looks.

"Of course you can stay here and take a look around, if that helps you," Bell offered. He seemed to feel uncomfortable all of a sudden. "Although I'm afraid you will not find much that you'll recognize. You'll know that all your personal belongings have been removed from this office when you… when it looked like you wouldn't come back."

He seemed to be waiting for Charlie to answer, and so an uncomfortable silence ensued before he continued talking. "But please do not think that you were simply replaced. If I'm not mistaken, CalSci still hasn't made a choice on who would be your successor. I'm just here temporarily, you know. When you didn't come back, the administration asked me to stay for one or two semesters until they found a permanent replacement. But if you ask me, you may take my place as soon as you like, Charles, I'm sure CalSci would love to have you back." The smile had reappeared on his face, although it still seemed a bit uncertain.

"Thank you," Charlie said politely. He didn't know if he ever wanted to teach again, he hadn't thought about it until now. But now, when he _did_ think about it and remembered what it had been like… students who were listening intently… who were starting to create new ideas… who learned a bit more every day… Yes, Charlie thought, he had really liked that. And he would probably still like it. Just not right now when he still needed to make sense of the world for himself.

He and Bell shook hands again before he left his office and Larry and Amita announced that they would have to get going as well if they wanted to get to their classes in time.

"Will you be alright on your own?" Amita asked. She seemed to continually warm up to him and lose her nervousness towards him the more 'Charlie' she could find in him.

"Of course. Don't worry about me."

"Okay then... If you need anything – I'll be teaching in room D216 and Larry's got a lecture in the old lecture hall on the top floor." She hesitated, wondering how she could best describe the way to those rooms.

A bit ironically, Larry, who couldn't be said to be known for his sense of direction, tried to come to her rescue. "That is in the –"

"I know where that is. Thanks."

"Good," Amita said happily. "Good. Then… see you later!"

Charlie nodded and gave them a brief smile. Amita gave him a radiating smile back while Larry was already heading out of the door, and that was when Charlie took his chances. He gave up the constraints he had put on himself and did something he had been wanting to do for quite some time now: he kissed Amita.

It was only a brief kiss, fleeting, just on the cheek, but nonetheless both he and she blushed deeply. For a moment Charlie was sure he'd blown it. He looked into her eyes for what seemed like eternity, trying to gauge her reaction. And then, a smile spread on Amita's face that put aside her astonishment.

"I have to go now," she said softly, hesitated for a second, and finally repeated that slightly awkward gesture of endearment herself. Her smile had become even more radiating when she finally gave Charlie her good-bye and left him alone. He grinned, rather stupidly, watching her leave, before closing the door behind her and turning towards the room.

For a few moments, he remained in that floating state in which Amita had put him. It was simply too good to be true… They seemed to love each other just as much as before his departure, if not more. And what could ever happen to him if he had Amita by his side?

He finally assigned Amita an extra corner of his mind and brought his conscious mind back to his task of returning to his old life by examining the office more closely than before.

He started taking up books he knew he owned too, browsed through them, then stepped towards the window and looked outside. The outside was correct. The image in here, however, didn't coincide completely with his memory. He tried to bring his mind back and picture his office the way it had been. The furniture was still the same, per se, but there had been other objects on the shelves, much more objects, the desk had been fuller, being occupied by piles and piles of paper… Yes, he remembered, this had been his office, he knew it, he remembered.

The door opened and for a moment he didn't know if he had actually managed so fast to put himself back into that situation or if it was really happening. For there were parallels, but the images weren't congruent.

 _Two men in suits entered his office. They gave Charlie a brief nod and took off their sun-glasses before the smaller one of them asked in a cool, business-like tone, "Professor Eppes?"_

 _Charlie lowered the hand with the piece of chalk slightly and in exchange raised his eye-brows. "That's me. What can I do for you?"_

" _In order to discuss that, we'll be needing both a more secure location and more time." The smile on the other man's lips when he answered was so cold that it almost made Charlie shudder._

"Professor Eppes?"

Charlie swallowed. It hadn't been more than a shred of a memory, but he instinctively knew that it had really happened, that shortly before his departure two men in suits had indeed entered his office, just like now, although he didn't think that those were the same two men.

"Yes," he answered, and his voice sounded a bit hoarse.

"We need you to come with us," the suit said – this time one without sun-glasses – and without further preliminaries, he continued, "Please turn around and face the wall, then put your hands behind your head and interlock your fingers."

For a few moments, Charlie wasn't sure if he wasn't imagining this after all. "I'm sorry, I think –"

"You heard us," the other man interrupted him. "And now turn around and raise your hands. You're under arrest in a case concerning national security."

 _The taller one put his sun-glasses in the pockets of his shirt. "The government needs your assistance, Doctor Eppes. It concerns national security."_

Charlie was still too confused to resist and turned towards the wall almost automatically. The green of the blackboards seemed to stimulate him enough to make him find his words again. "And who are you?"

"CIA," the brief answer was while they pulled down his arms and cuffed him.

The three letters reverberated in Charlie's ears while they led him out of his office, along the corridor and out of the building, past curious and confused students and professors.

"What's going on? What do you want from me?"

"We'd like to ask you some questions," was the smooth reply while they made their way to a dark vehicle. Charlie couldn't believe that this was really happening. Why didn't someone intervene?

" _Charlie?!_ "

Again, Charlie wasn't sure if he was imagining the call simply because he was wishing for it, but when he turned towards the voice as well as he could against the firm grip of his guards, he could clearly see Amita's face as she stood on top of the outside stairs leading towards the entrance of the Math and Science Building.

"They arrested me!" he called towards her when they reached the car and his head was dunked as they pushed him into the vehicle. One of the men took the seat next to Charlie in the back. His watchful eyes noticed the look of desperation in Charlie's eyes when he glanced back at the familiar building and the by now familiar face.


	24. Déjà vu

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1

* * *

24\. Déjà vu

"I'm telling you! That thing was over a yard long! And it weighed over fifty pounds, at least!"

"Sure, Colby," David said with an indulging smile. "If you say so."

Megan tried, not very successfully, to hide her grin as Colby continued his story, but it seemed as though he didn't mind that his colleagues were laughing at him. With him. Whatever.

"Anyway, you remember we only had this small rowboat," Colby continued his narration. "With a real boat, you know a motor boat or something, that wouldn't have been a problem, 'cause it would've been steady in the water. But my dad and I were sitting in that cockleshell and suddenly this gigantic fish bites. I, of course, brace my feet against the side of the boat, but the fish's pulling in the opposite direction, and that thing's developing a crazy strength. Me too, of course, but it almost pulled me out of the boat anyway, probably would have if my dad hadn't kept a hold of me. So there we are, bracing ourselves against the side of the boat which already starts dipping, but we keep our balance. Then suddenly there's a zip and before you know it, we both topple over backwards, and a second later, our boat is swimming keel up."

David and Megan laughed; the image of a befuddled little Colby with seaweed in his hair and wet all over had something decidedly comical about it. Colby was grinning as well, satisfied with the reaction his little performance had brought about, and even Don had to realize that he too was grinning broadly. He knew that he would soon have to shoo his team out of the break room and back to work, but he managed to put off his much too strict sense of duty for another bit. The situation just bore too much normalcy for him to be willing to put an end to it so soon.

However, that was something that wasn't in his power to decide, and the ringtone of his cell called him back into the daily routine of his job. "Eppes."

"Don? Something's wrong, I don't know what's going on, but I can tell you it's fishy and –"

"Amita, just calm down, okay?" Don said in as soothing a manner as he could while his own nervousness was awakening. Amita seemed extremely upset, and in the light of the most recent events and since she was currently staying at CalSci with Charlie, Don had a very clear and unwelcome idea who her concern might be directed at. "What happened?"

"It's Charlie!" Amita immediately confirmed his suspicion and the queasy feeling in his gut. "They've taken him with them!"

" _What?!_ "

His team turned around towards him, their smiling faces frozen, but Don hardly noticed.

"They've taken him with them, but I don't know where they went, and I can't –"

"Hang on, Amita, calm down!" For if Amita didn't calm down, how the hell was he supposed to remain calm? " _Who_ has taken him with them? What happened?"

"The police."

"The police?" Don repeated, unbelieving. His worry receded a bit, but instead his confusion increased. His little brother had been taken away by the police? "Amita, what the hell happened this morning?"

"Nothing! Everything was normal! We showed Charlie his old office and he recognized it and then Larry and Walter and I went to give our lectures and when I came back I saw how those two guys take Charlie with them. They had their backs towards me, but I could see that they had put handcuffs on him, behind his back, and then they got into a car with him and drove off!"

Don had already picked up his car keys and his jacket, but halted. If Charlie had been taken in by the police, wasn't there much more he could do and find out from here, from his office?

"Who were these two guys, Amita? Were they from the LAPD?" His team was watching him attentively, yet with confused expressions on their faces, but he hardly paid any attention to them.

"No, I don't think so, they were wearing suits. They looked like agents, maybe with the NSA, but I don't know Don!"

"Alright, Amita, it's alright. What about the car? Maybe it said which agency they belonged to? Or maybe you remember the license plate?"

"G-d, no, I didn't pay attention to it, I'm so sorry! I just didn't think about it! But there was nothing special about the car, it was just a plain black KIA, an SUV."

"Okay, Amita, it's okay. I'll call you as soon as I find something, and so do you, okay? I'm sure this is all just a misunderstanding."

* * *

'Misunderstanding' apparently wasn't the right term; it was more like there was no understanding at all. Although Amita had said that the men had been wearing suits and no uniforms, Don first (that is, after a useless attempt to reach Charlie on his turned off cell) tried the LAPD. Nobody here knew anything about the arrest of a certain Dr. Eppes, but the officer Don had reached knew him and even knew Charlie a little, so he promised him he'd ask around, also with other departments, and contact Don as soon as he'd find anything.

Next, it occurred to Don to check with the FBI. True, he didn't know of any investigation against Charlie, but that didn't mean anything. However, here too his inquiries didn't bear any positive results. Nobody in the bureau knew anything about Charlie being under arrest, but everyone promised to keep their eyes and ears open.

With all the other law enforcement agencies Don got similar results. He even got an answer from the NSA this time, even though it was negative. The CIA took their time, but they too finally told him they didn't know anything about the matter, and the same result he got in the evening when he actually received an answer from the DOD. Interpol – that thought had occurred to Don while he'd been talking to the NSA – hadn't replied to his inquiry yet, but Don had his doubts anyway that other nations' law enforcements would be involved in this mess, even though he didn't want to exclude the possibility just yet.

Contrary to his best intentions, the queasy sensation that had made its presence in his gut when he'd received Amita's call had continued to increase, and by now he could no longer shake the feeling that something much less harmless than an official arrest was going on. Charlie or at least his attorney should have notified them by now, right? That is, if his brother's memory wasn't deteriorating again. Maybe he'd just forgotten about notifying his family where he was because he couldn't remember them and didn't realize how much they would worry? But even if that was the case, where was he?

Just as Don was about to break out into full-blown panic, his cell rang. His wild hope it might be Charlie was shattered immediately when 'Amita' appeared on the screen.

"Has Charlie turned up?" was the first thing he said.

"No." Just because he'd expected the answer didn't make it less devastating. "But it occurred to me that those guys were parking in the field of vision of one of the security cameras."

New hope was grasping Don and it brought determination with it. "We'll need those tapes immediately."

"Larry and I could already take a look at them." Before Don could ask what they'd done to get that kind of access, she went on, and maybe it was better if he didn't know. "The license plate wasn't legible, but with a couple of optimizations we managed to make it clear. The men still aren't recognizable though."

She forwarded Don the license plate number and he thanked her. He briefly thought about asking Megan or David or Colby to check it – he was eager to make the next call – but he didn't want to get them into trouble. Charlie's disappearance, whether it was an arrest or not, wasn't one of their cases and they had no sufficient reason to start an investigation. They had to investigate real cases, ones that had actually been assigned to them. No, Don would ask around on his own as a start. In the end, who said that there was anything wrong? It could still just be a big misunderstanding, right?

As it turned out, the car belonged to a rental car company. Don gave them a call, but just like he'd expected, they wouldn't give him any information over the phone.

In an impromptu decision, Don grabbed his car keys. Their current case was slow going anyway, and it was now obvious that something was going on here, for if it had actually been some law enforcement agency to take Charlie with them, why would they have used a rental car?

"Listen guys, could you hold the fort for a bit?" he said to his team and was already out of the door. Megan was calling something after him, but he paid no attention to her. Something was really wrong here, and it had been wrong since Charlie had been on that stupid assignment of his. Back then, Don had allowed himself to get distracted by his grief and hadn't made further inquiries, but this time, he wouldn't let himself be deterred by anything or anybody. He would finally find out what the hell was going on here, that was certain.

* * *

As he found out over the course of the afternoon, the man who'd rented the car didn't exist. He was a phantom. His ID card had been forged and there was no way to identify the stranger either going by the tapes from CalSci's video surveillance, nor by the ones from the rental car company. With both tapes, the image was too coarse and their unknown men had somehow managed to always show their backs or their sides to the cameras – in those few instances where the cameras had caught them at all. On top of that, the guy that had entered the shop to rent the car had been wearing not only sun-glasses, but also a baseball cap, which made him unrecognizable despite the better camera perspective inside the shop. Since the two men at CalSci had been just as camera-shy and had apparently been wearing sun-glasses as well, they couldn't even be entirely sure if their guy from the rental car company was one of them.

True, Amita and Larry were still trying to enhance the tapes somehow and to make them usable, but Don didn't want to rely solely on that. He had to become active himself if he didn't want to let his brother down, because by now, there could hardly be any doubt left: Charlie hadn't been arrested, he'd been kidnapped. The forged ID in combination with the rented car were just too obvious signs to be interpreted otherwise. Just like the circumstance that Charlie seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth.

When Don realized the finality of his thoughts, a heavy lump formed in his throat and he felt his chest become contracted by something cold to a degree that made it difficult for him to breathe. There was no more denying it: the arrest wasn't simply a mistake. Neither was it a misunderstanding. And it sure as hell wasn't an ordinary and lawful arrest. It was a crime. And all of Don's hopes that the matter might turn out to be totally harmless had disappeared.

* * *

Later that afternoon, Don felt trapped in an awful feeling of déjà vu. Again, Jonathan D. Stevens made time to see him surprisingly quickly and again, he found it highly unsettling that he himself was the initiator of their upcoming discussion. And again, it was about Charlie, for again, he'd disappeared under highly suspicious circumstances.

"I'm not sure if you've heard," Don started after the greeting and with few but precise words told his superior both about Charlie's return and about his renewed disappearance. Panic and that awful fear were threatening to overwhelm him, but he suppressed them, he had to suppress them, he had to maintain a clear head, because everything else could be disastrous both for his brother and for himself.

Jonathan D. Stevens didn't seem to have heard about those events yet, or in any case he made a quite believable expression of surprise. "That sounds indeed rather abnormal," he admitted when Don had ended. "I assume you've come here to ask permission for investigating this case?"

"Not exactly," Don countered, trying not to show his impatience more than was wise at this strategically important moment, but he couldn't get rid of the urge to find some way to help Charlie, to do something useful. "I mean, we can agree on the fact that Charlie's disappearance now has something to do with his disappearance last fall, right?"

"I wouldn't say that."

Don raised his eye-brows, rendered silent for a second. That question had been rhetorical. Why was Stevens so set on arguing that point? Anger was about to boil up inside him, but he tried his best to remain polite. "My brother disappeared during his assignment last fall under very suspicious circumstances and was declared dead. Now that he's hardly back home, he's… kidnapped. And in both cases, there's some ominous law enforcement agency behind it all without anybody of that agency coming forward and identifying themselves."

"Still, it could just be a coincidence."

"I don't believe that, Sir."

Stevens sighed. "So what do you want me to do, Agent Eppes?"

"Last fall, when Charlie first disappeared, you haven't told me everything you knew," he reproached his boss. He had been suspecting him to know something for a long time, but now, that idea had become a certainty for him.

"You're hallucinating, Agent."

"I'm not. When we were investigating the case, you told me to stop looking into the matter."

"Because you couldn't show any findings."

"I don't believe that. You told me then that the order to lay down the case came from the top. How far on top are we talking about? Who's involved in this matter?"

The assistant director sighed, was silent for a few moments and then looked Don in the eye earnestly. "I don't have the slightest idea, Eppes. Since your brother was working for this bureau, my superiors were keeping close tabs on the investigation and my decisions in it. When it was stalling, they told me in no uncertain ways to shut it down, but I don't know who actually made that decision. Could be that they just didn't want any further resources spent on a task they thought of as futile, but it could also be that you have tangled with a very powerful opponent, Eppes. And if this is so, you won't find out anything else if you start looking further on top, but you might step on somebody's toes if you do. In any event, you should try and solve this case some other way."

Don was silent. He was inclined to believe his superior that he indeed didn't know anything, but unfortunately, that didn't help him. For Stevens was right, if _he_ didn't know anything about the real motives at work in this affair, then Don probably wouldn't be able to find out anything about them either. Not that he wouldn't try. But Stevens had a point, it would probably be better and more efficient to try other ways first.

"So you're giving your consent that my team and I investigate… that we investigate Charlie's disappearance?" he assured himself.

Stevens nodded. A faint smile was playing around his lips. "I am, Agent. Get us our consultant back."

Don didn't know about his superior, but he himself felt uncomfortably reminded of the last time when Stevens had used almost the same words. And he couldn't stop his mind to conjure up the memories of his failure and the horrific results of last time.

3-1-4-1-5-9-2-6-5-3-5-8-9-7-9-3-2-3-8-4-6

Anna Silversteen opened the door to her apartment, lay down her keys on the small side table in the hallway and first made her way into the bathroom to sprinkle some water into her face. Here in Mississippi, it was much warmer than she'd expected. Yesterday, when she'd sat on the little balcony that belonged to her apartment, she'd even gotten a slight sunburn. Just a sign of how much she was spoilt by the sun, she told herself, wiping the stress of the afternoon traffic away with a grin.

She looked into the mirror, assessed that for someone in her late twenties, she didn't need to hide, and thought about calling her new maybe-yes-maybe-not-currently-rather-yes-boyfriend, but then decided against it. He could dangle for a little while longer, he shouldn't think that she was somehow dependent on him. She didn't depend on anybody anymore. She was free. Free, free, free…

The sing-song accompanied her, both in her head and quietly humming on her lips, into the kitchen. What should she make for dinner tonight? She was in the mood for something exotic. Maybe Chinese? She even had a wok in her kitchen cupboard. Thai would also be nice. Or something else entirely?

She was just about to look if maybe the cookbook would give her some suggestions when she thought she heard movement behind her, a soft rustle of cloth. _Surely just the curtains_ , she admonished herself. She really shouldn't be so paranoid, and there was no reason at all to turn around now, no, she wouldn't show that weakness, there was nothing there… but after all, nobody would see her if she indulged in her paranoia.

Anna managed only half a turn. Of the man that grabbed her, all she could see was that he was bigger than her. Her cry was muffled by his leather glove, and before she could start to put up a real fight, her meat knife was pulled swiftly through her throat. She let out a wheezing sound and sank down on the floor.

There was no other use in store for that knife tonight, neither à la chinoise, nor à la thaïlandaise.


	25. Déjà-vu

**Disclaimer:** see chapter one

* * *

25\. Déjà vu

" _So? What's this all about?"_

 _In the bright sunlight and the familiar, friendly surroundings, the black figures seemed quite bizarre. Charlie didn't know why they thought that out here, on the campus, they'd be more undisturbed or the risk of being overheard would be lower, but he had no intention to object, for out here, those mysterious two men lost a lot of their menacing aura._

" _It's about counter-terrorism," the shorter one of them said, Agent Taccone, who apparently was the less taciturn of the two of them. "The government is hereby engaging you to contribute to fighting al-Qaeda by analyzing their attacks and trying to establish a pattern telling us when, where and how this organization is going to commit further attacks."_

 _For a moment, Charlie was absolutely flabbergasted. Terrorism? Al-Qaeda? All that sounded quite overwhelming._

 _It took him a second to find his voice again, but when he did, he couldn't hold back the questions that almost tumbled over in his mouth. "How long have you been working on this project? And with how many people? And –"_

" _I'm sure you'll understand that we can give you more detailed information only on site," Agent Taccone interrupted him. "So do you accept the assignment?" It didn't really sound like a question._

 _Charlie shook his head. He felt quite overwhelmed with the situation. "Where would that be, 'on site'? And for how long? I mean, I've got a job here."_

" _Don't you think that serving your country would be more important than your work here? But you don't need to worry, we'll make sure to sort everything out with your administration so that your absence won't be detrimental to your work here. Your coming with us is crucial, not only in order to ensure non-disclosure, but also for purely practical reasons. I assume that given your experience, you'll realize that there will be a lot of information being exchanged. However, where we're going is something you don't need to concern yourself with."_

 _Charlie managed to suppress a snort. "And for how long?" he repeated and hardly even tried to hide his irritation about that lofty treatment._

" _That depends on you. Judging by what we know about you and your work for other agencies, it shouldn't take longer than two or three months."_

 _Charlie frowned. "Two or three months to analyze the attacks of a vast organization like al-Qaeda? Alone?"_

" _We have several people working on gathering the necessary data, but yes, the analysis itself is something you would work on alone. However, our agency is currently merely interested in the attacks in only one specific country and therefore in the activities of only a few terrorist cells, so the amount of data to be analyzed should be manageable."_

" _What country? And what agency? Who are you?"_

" _You'll learn all that on site."_

 _Charlie shook his head. This whole thing was kind of fishy. "I'm sorry, but under these circumstances, I'm afraid I'll have to deny you my assistance. Either you tell me what this is about, or you go looking for someone else to do the job."_

 _With some satisfaction, Charlie watched the two agents exchange a glance. It was obvious that they didn't want to go without Charlie's collaboration. And sooner or later, they would have to give him more detailed information anyway._

" _It's about Saudi Arabia," the other one, Agent Johnson, now explained. "The government hopes to successfully fight terrorism in this country in order to make them a valuable American ally. To do that, we'll have to ensure that their government is not brought down by extremist parties. With this project, we hope to minimize the risks of terror attacks on Arabian soil – and, by extension, on US soil as well –, thus restoring order and thereby ensuring the freedom and political sovereignty of the Saudi Arabian people."_

 _Charlie nodded slowly. There was some logic in that, even though he wondered what the underlying motives might be for making Saudi Arabia an ally. "And who are you?" Charlie repeated his earlier question._

" _We're CIA."_

 _Woah. Okay. Breathe. He took a double look at the badges they held out to him and told himself to put his jaw back where it belonged._

" _CIA?" Charlie asked and couldn't suppress the reflex to swallow. All of a sudden, he was feeling quite uncomfortable. The CIA's operations were beyond secretive, and everyone knew – no, that was the point, everyone_ _suspected_ _that even today they were still responsible for actions that were morally questionable, to say the least._

" _Exactly," Agent Taccone said and impatience showed in his tone. "So you're coming with us now, Professor?"_

" _I – may I think about it?"_

" _What's there to think about? Your country needs you, Professor."_

 _Charlie snorted automatically, but immediately tried to cover it with a cough. Better not upset these guys. Not too much anyway. "That's what you're telling me, but pardon me if I have a little difficulty having faith in the purity of your motives. I mean, any child has heard about… incidents" – Charlie had refrained from calling them 'crimes' – "that the CIA was involved in over the past few decades." Among those several provocations of coups d'état, questionable interventions in combat situations and, of course, the latest accusations concerning counter-terrorism, including Guantánamo._

" _Oh please, Professor, whatever you're talking about has happened in the past. The world, and most certainly the CIA, was a different place back then. You're not actually judging me and my colleagues for what happened in the sixties or even earlier than that?"_

" _No, of course not –"_

" _I was under the impression that you were a man of rationality and facts. I thought you understood how things work, that every mistake that is committed in connection with the CIA is magnified by the media and dug up at any occasion that presents itself, even decades after the fact. I thought that at least someone like you realized that most of the time, the CIA is a very efficient organization without which not only our country, but other countries as well would be in a much poorer state today. Do you really intend to deny us your help just because every now and then there has been one bad decision out of thousands? I must say, that doesn't sound very efficient or logical to me. Besides, we have told you what this is about, Professor. Even if the CIA made mistakes in the past, what reason could there be to deny us your help in this specific case? Terrorism is heinous and has to be antagonized, or don't you share this opinion?"_

 _Charlie didn't answer at once. He was well aware that Agent Taccone was trying to manipulate him, but unfortunately, that knowledge didn't annihilate the logic in his words. There was some truth to what he was saying. Terrorism was a bad thing, and if Charlie, by collaborating on that project, could contribute to weaken a terrorist organization, wasn't it his duty to mankind to do whatever was in his power? Didn't he have an obligation to use his abilities for the good of everyone?_

" _Think about it," Taccone said. "We'll be back in half an hour and we're sure that you'll have come to your senses by then."_

 _With that, they left him alone._

 _He let himself fall on a bench, supported his suddenly very heavy head with his hands and let his gaze wander over the campus as though the answer would be lying around somewhere. It wasn't, of course. True, he didn't trust those two agents, not after their tactics of trying to get him to work for them. First not telling him anything, then trying to guilt him into offering his services, attacking his scientific pride… no, he didn't approve of their methods, nor of the way they used other people for their goals. But in this case, the goal was honorable, and the means… If he collaborated on that project and was able to predict terrorist attacks, they might have an opportunity to stop those attacks. It sounded reasonable, it sounded like something he would do for Don, and with preventing known crimes from happening, there would be no reason to use despicable means, right? At least there never had been when he'd been working for Don. However, if he denied them his help, they might be forced to resort to other methods, to more questionable means…_

 _Charlie would have liked to talk to someone about this matter, but firstly, half an hour wasn't that much time, and secondly, he'd first have to find someone with a high enough security clearance to chat about a secret counter-terrorism program._

 _Instead, he tried to imagine what they would advise him to do. Amita would probably be a bit worried, but would understand that he had to do it for his country, and to help people who were less fortunate than him. Larry would make some cryptic analogies that would probably amount to Charlie himself having to figure out what to do, implying that nobody could make that decision for him. His father would probably be worried as well, but probably also proud that his son was trying to use his abilities to contribute to making the world a better place, a freer place – at least as long as he didn't find out that Charlie's employers were the CIA. And Don…_

 _A memory flashed through him. 'Come on, Charlie, you have to see where your priorities lie, or should lie!' Don had told him, no, rather shouted at him. He'd been irritated and upset because Charlie had given the case he'd asked his help on the day before too little of his time. No, there was no doubt about it, Don would expect him to do his due, to serve his country. And maybe… yeah, maybe Charlie would also be able to impress him by working on this project, just a little bit? At least when everything would be over?_

 _When the two agents came back half an hour later, Charlie had managed to summon up enough courage to make his decision. He was still not entirely convinced that he was doing the right thing, but he knew that in any case there were much more circumstances in favor of accepting than of declining the assignment. He'd probably be able to be of help to a whole lot of people. Besides, the assignment sounded really challenging, even exciting. Almost a bit too exciting, considering that at bottom, he had no idea what exactly he was getting himself into._

* * *

 _He was still deliberating on how to tell them when they noticed that he had something on his mind. No use to try to hide anything from them._

" _Something wrong, Charlie?" his father asked when he'd hardly even joined Don and him at the dinner table._

 _Since Charlie would have to tell them sometime anyway, he could just get it over with now. After all, Amita hadn't reacted too badly either when he'd told her about his assignment this afternoon. In the end, it wasn't like it was dangerous or something. He'd merely do some calculations, just like he always did, only that this time, he wouldn't do them from home, but from… well, from some other place._

" _I won't be home for the next couple of weeks," he told them._

 _The two of them were staring at him. "What do you mean?" Alan asked._

" _I accepted an assignment. It starts Monday and I'll be back probably in a month or so." At least that was what Charlie hoped, but after he'd accepted the job and received some further information about the mission, he expected his task to be manageable within a month._

" _Where from will you be back? Where are you going? And what kind of assignment are we talking about anyway?"_

 _Charlie swallowed. He'd been afraid that Don would ask those questions, and he knew that he wouldn't like his answer at all. "I can't tell you that."_

" _What do you mean, 'I can't tell you'? And anyway, who is it that you'll be consulting for? And what will you have to do?"_

" _I told you, Don, I can't tell you that. Please, just stop it, okay?"_

" _Stop it? Come on, Charlie, you can't be serious! I mean, you have to see for yourself that this whole thing is fishy beyond measure! There's no way you can accept an assignment like that!"_

" _I already accepted it, Don!" Charlie, too, was becoming more irritated. "You'll have to find a way to live with it, for this is_ _my_ _decision, so you'll just have to accept it!"_

* * *

Charlie sighed. No, Don hadn't accepted his decision. Right until Charlie had gone away on his own to fly into the unknown with those two agents, Don had been trying to talk him out of that idea. Charlie, however, hadn't been willing to discuss the matter. His decision had been made and there hadn't been anything he could have done to retract it anyway. He'd given them his word, and breaking it had been out of the question. The fact that Don was attempting to dictate him how to live his life had only increased his defiance and made him even less cooperative. After all, what right did Don have to poke his nose into his affairs?

In the end, Charlie had avoided him. He'd actually managed to get rid of him and join the agents without another confrontation. He'd even been a little relieved when the small private jet had finally taken off into the air, and at this point, he hadn't cared that he had no idea where he was going.

It was only now that he realized that he'd obviously made a mistake. The CIA had come back and taken him with them again – only that this time, his being here was far from voluntary. At first, he'd tried asking what was going on, what they were doing with him, but they hadn't replied to his questions and just told him to shut up. When they had swapped the car for a helicopter, they'd started ignoring his protests altogether.

Charlie wondered what they were planning to do with him. It was obvious that this was no normal arrest, the obvious indicators being their more than taciturn behavior, the lack of adherence to any kind of regulations and, last but not least, the blindfold they had put on him. However, just knowing that this _wasn't_ a normal arrest didn't help him to determine what it _was,_ and neither did it help that there were quite a lot of things he wouldn't put past his adversaries. He couldn't remember exactly where this heightened feeling of mistrust originated from, but he decided that knowing what he did, he should trust this feeling. The question was, did they know that he remembered, not everything, but a bit more every day? Would his memory coming back even change anything about their plans? What _were_ they planning to do to him?

And what had they done to him already?

Charlie closed his eyes again, even though there wasn't much he could see past the blindfold, and tried to dive back into the depths of his memories. If he couldn't escape from these guys, he should at least grasp any opportunity to be one step ahead of them knowledge-wise. For one thing was certain, there was no way he would tell them what he already knew, but at the same time, he'd try to find out, as soon as possible, the rest of what had happened last fall. He had to know. For in any event, he knew that he could never trust what these agents would tell him.

He wasn't very successful, though. After the efforts that first memory had cost him, his brain felt rather squishy, and try as he might to get back into captivity not only physically (something he could have done without), but also in his mind – he just couldn't concentrate anymore.

Eventually – hours must have passed since the arrest – the helicopter landed. Charlie was pushed out and multiple hands were tugging at his jacket to pull him away from the noisy rotor blades, but already after few steps, this newfound legroom was gone and he was forced to sit again, on some sort of cold metal floor. When he heard the engine and the room he was held in started moving, Charlie realized he had to be in some sort of transporter.

They were driving for a long time. Charlie estimated it to be two or three hours. However, it was difficult to maintain orientation, both regarding space and regarding time. This blindfold was driving him crazy.

Again they stopped, again he was pulled onto his feet. He could feel that underneath his shoes, there had to be gravel of some sort, but only few steps later, the ground became softer. _Earth,_ Charlie surmised as he heard the transporter distancing itself from them. It seemed as though they had just stopped in the middle of the road, got rid of him and then drove off. Or at least the driver had.

The remaining hands – after few minutes Charlie was pretty certain that they had to belong to two men – dragged, pushed and pulled him further along and he stumbled on, blindly, through a world unknown to him. He had to be somewhere in nature, he could hear birds chirping and leaves rustling. He thought they were night birds, but he couldn't draw any further conclusions from his surroundings, and after what seemed like eternity – at least three or four more hours had to have passed – the noises were gone. He was led down a flight of stairs and could feel that it was a bit warmer here, the slight breeze was gone, he had to be below the face of the earth. He was pushed onward, in different directions, and remained completely without orientation until they made him sit onto a chair and pulled the blindfold off his face.

Breathing heavily, Charlie squinted. The room was only dimly lit, but it took some time until his eyes, after the hours of darkness, could bear the light and enabled him to see that he was sitting at a table opposite a man in a dark suit. Behind himself, Charlie could more sense than see two other men, but he didn't dare turning around. In any event, those two men weren't important to him right now, for his attention was immediately drawn to the man in front of him, who seemed so strangely familiar…

" _Alright, Professor, so this is going to be your workspace for the following month. Please turn to Dexter Johnson in case there's anything you need."_

"Alright, Professor. It seems like you managed to get yourself rather deeply into trouble."

"What's that supposed to mean? What do you want from me? You can't detain me here!"

"Oh, my! Now _that's_ an accusing tone! Of course we may hold you here, Doctor Eppes."

The man was talking with so much conviction that Charlie suddenly became uncertain. "No," he contradicted, not sure whether his main goal was to convince his collocutor or himself. "You've kidnapped me, against my will. You had no right to do that."

"Kidnapped? Oh no, no, no, Professor, you're mistaken. We had every right to do what we did, we arrested you, on behalf of the government."

"But I haven't done anything wrong! I want to talk to my lawyer."

The man gave a small laugh. "You haven't done anything wrong, alright."

"I haven't!"

The man sighed. "Who are you trying to fool, Professor? We all know what you did. Are you really trying to make us believe you're unaware of having committed any crimes?"

Charlie shook his head. All of a sudden, he was insecure. "I don't know what you're talking about. I didn't commit any crimes. When… when, in your opinion, would that have been?"

"Well, roughly half a year ago, last October. Come on, Professor, there's no sense in denying it. Everyone here knows what you did, and now you're going to be held accountable."

Charlie swallowed. His self-confidence, wavering to begin with, was now tumbling fast. Maybe that man was telling the truth after all? Maybe he'd indeed committed a crime and just couldn't remember? It was hard to imagine, but somehow it made sense: maybe committing a crime was what had made him lose his memory…

"I want to talk to my lawyer," Charlie repeated, though he couldn't ban the tremble from his voice. "You'll have to grant me that. I know my rights."

"You'll be able to talk to your lawyer soon enough, Professor. However, we'd like to have a little chat with you first."


	26. First Insights

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1

* * *

26\. First Insights

"What do you want from me?" Charlie asked. He tried to sound controlled and detached, but the tremble in his voice was still there.

"We want your cooperation," the man in the suit said, sounding very business-like. "Despite your crimes, you're a valuable asset for this country. Instead of pressing charges against you immediately, the government gives you the opportunity to make amends by serving your country and thereby, maybe, compensate for the damage you've caused. You may have made grave mistakes in the past, but presupposing your cooperation now, there's still a possibility of dealing with this affair in a way that is advantageous for everyone. Maybe it won't even be necessary to make your transgressions public."

Charlie had already started shaking his head while his opponent was still speaking, but more unconsciously than as a deliberate reply to the 'request'. He had some idea about what 'serving his country' would mean, and there was no way he could do that. He didn't remember what they'd done in fall, but judging from the things he _did_ remember, he knew that it must have been bad, really bad. Why else would he have denied his further services so categorically to Mr. Rosenthal, that day he'd vanished? And why else would they have seen the need to hold him captive when he'd found out what it was that they were doing? There was no doubt in his mind, he'd rather go to prison for whatever crime he'd committed back then – if he'd committed a crime at all.

"What are you charging me with?"

Charlie swallowed, not just because he was demonstrating much more courage than he actually felt. What should he do if they charged him with participating in _their_ crimes, whatever they might have been? For in the beginning, he _had_ been helping them, and he'd only stopped when he'd realized what he was doing. But ignorance was no defense. He'd made a mistake, technically he might even have committed a crime even though he hadn't been aware of it at the time and even though he still didn't know – or rather, he didn't know anymore – what kind of damage he'd done.

Charlie shuddered. He hadn't wanted that! That hadn't been the plan, he had wanted to _help_ people, to serve his country, to support his government! And now – now, that government was charging him with a crime. But if it had been them he'd been working for, how could they legitimately charge him if all he'd been doing was what they'd told him to do? Or were they referring to something he had done after he'd separated himself from them?

"You're being charged with supporting terrorist organizations," came the reply, and Charlie thought he was submerged in ice water. Supporting terrorists? They were charging him with _supporting terrorists_?! Had they lost their marbles?!

"Last fall, you pretended to collaborate on a governmental project on counterterrorism. Instead, you chose this disguise to forward crucial information to known terrorist groups in Saudi Arabia."

Charlie shook his head again. The whole thing was absurd. "But I didn't –" He fell silent. Of course what this man was claiming was wrong. He had fought against terrorist groups, not supported them… right? Although participating in terrorism would explain his memory – _you've killed your own brother…_ But hadn't this scene been staged by his former kidnappers? He had been kidnapped, right? And Don was alive, so this terrorism theory wouldn't explain anything after all, and anyway, it couldn't be, because it just couldn't…

Charlie's heart was hammering in his chest with fear, but his mind kept telling him that these people had to be mistaken. He couldn't remember having committed crimes like these, at least not knowingly, and what was even more important, he couldn't imagine for the life of him what reasons there could be for him to support terrorist groups. This agency had to be mistaken.

That was… was it really _mistaken_? And was it an agency? He swallowed, but by now his mind had started working again, so he was fairly sure with his answer: No. No, it was extremely unlikely that those people were working for the government. They hadn't arrested him, they'd kidnapped him. They'd put a blindfold on him, for G-d's sake! They had come clandestinely and disappeared with him into nowhere and didn't grant him his rights. These people weren't guardians of the law, they were criminals. And with that, the probability that Charlie had been taken in because he'd offended US law was decreasing rapidly. They were just making this up, they had to know that he wasn't a terrorist. He just didn't know what they were aiming at by making such outlandish accusations. And without knowing that, Charlie had a hard time figuring out how to react.

"What's the matter?"

Charlie's head came up and left him staring directly into the expectant eyes of the man before him.

"Is there something you'd like to tell us, Professor?"

Charlie swallowed and shook his head. "No," he said, determination in his voice. "I want to talk to my lawyer."

Charlie knew quite well how utopian his demand was and didn't expect those people to grant it, or even to consider granting it. But what he needed most right now was time, time to think, and he hadn't given up hope yet to get that.

The answer was the same as before, "You'll be able to talk to your lawyer soon enough." _Good one_ , Charlie thought to himself. "But seeing how much you're set on justice being done, why don't you tell us what happened from your point of view?"

Charlie, however, remained firm (one might say 'stubborn'). "I won't tell you anything anymore."

The other man sighed. "Alright. If that's what you want…" He let the phrase hang in the balance, apparently hoping this would elicit some further words from Charlie, but the attempt failed.

"You're going to come to appreciate our offer," he said, and Charlie fought hard to suppress the urge to breathe a sigh of relief. That sounded final. "Think about it, but think about it fast. As soon as the government no longer needs your assistance, things will look rather grim for you. From that moment onward, as much as I regret it, there won't be anything anymore that I could do for you."

 _Hypocrite_ , Charlie wanted to shout in his face, but he stuck with his stoic silence, even though inside, he was much more agitated than he was letting on.

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Inside, Alan was much more agitated than he was letting on. He'd been trying to reach Don ever since Dr. Bradford's secretary had called to ask why Charlie hadn't shown up at his appointment, for that had been a question the answer to which Alan too was very interested in. Don, however, hadn't answered his calls or shown any other kind of reaction.

Eventually, he'd reached Amita. She had told him that someone had taken Charlie in, but who, or where, or why – those were things that remained a mystery. And Alan's trust in the constitutionality of law enforcement agencies wasn't firm enough not to make him worry.

He tried to remain rational, though. More than that, he tried to make his mind repudiate any theory that held any form of danger for his son. Sadly, however, he didn't succeed. It just all came back with a vengeance, the desperation, the time without him, the time of grief…

Alan forbade himself to think like that. They had arrested him. That had happened to himself as well once or twice. An arrest, no big deal. And Don would surely have an answer to his questions, presupposed that Charlie wouldn't leapfrog his big brother and come through the door any moment now. Maybe everything was just a misunderstanding. Maybe it was a mix-up. All that would surely be resolved shortly. Maybe that was why Don was ignoring his calls, maybe he was just in the middle of explaining whatever to whomever, of telling them that there was no reason to arrest Charlie. Yes, first he'd explain it to them and then to Alan.

Presupposed that he would actually be able to explain Charlie's disappearance.

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Charlie went back and forth in his little cell, trying not to look in every direction. He assumed that he was being watched, but he preferred the CIA or whoever those men were not to know what he knew or thought to know. It was hard not to let anything show, but it became easier by Charlie's intention to direct his eyes and ears not outwards, but inwards in order to finally find out what on earth was going on here.

What didn't make it easier on him though was the image of his brother covered in blood that just wouldn't go away. _Come on_ , Charlie told himself, _Don's alive, you know that. You didn't kill him. And surely he's already looking for you, but you should help him as well as you could, so get your head together and concentrate!_

He pushed the image aside, but it came back. His determination increased along with his desperation, and all of a sudden, he wasn't here anymore.

 _The cell was small and only had one small window which was barred and, which was even worse, directly beneath the ceiling. It was just like it had been in the office he'd worked in for more than three weeks, a window that even during the day didn't let in enough light to let them renounce on electricity, a window that didn't allow them to look outside, not only because of its height, but also because it only showed a small duct that seemed to be covered by metal grids, judging from the patterns of light he could see. The only thing was that when he'd worked in his office, that window hadn't bothered him much. It had only been temporary and the situation somehow voluntary. Now the darkness and the imprisonment underground weren't temporary anymore, and far from voluntary._

 _So all that window had told him then and was telling him now was that he was probably somewhere underground. Anywhere in the world. But from this world outside, all he could see was the space, less than a yard, up to the concrete wall of the duct that seemed to go around the building, almost like a castle ditch._

 _If those featureless ducts were the castle ditch, then this cell was his dungeon. By now, Charlie knew that it had been a horrendous mistake to tell Rosenthal about his insight. He should have noticed right from the beginning the danger that lay in those cold blue eyes. Now, it was too late. He couldn't get out of here. Just_ _they_ _could get_ _in_ _. Apparently they didn't grow tired of asking him whether or when he would finally come to his senses and offer them his assistance again. He wouldn't do that, though. Never. Not since he found out what heinous crime had been committed here._

 _He shuddered. He wouldn't help them, that was certain, no matter what they would do to him. It was bad enough that he'd helped them already. For even though he hadn't known what he was causing by his actions, there was no way denying that he'd done what he'd done. He'd done the work they'd hired him for, and that work had contributed a lot to their crimes. It had been him to calculate the most promising sites and dates and methods for future terror attacks. The sites and dates and methods that the terrorists considered to be the most surprising ones and the ones that would hit their government where it hurt them most. The ones with the highest number of civilian victims._

 _Charlie buried his face in his hands on which he thought he could feel the blood of those innocent people. The tears were there again. His stomach was rebelling, even though it was almost empty. His throat was constricting, denying him air, and also his lungs were refusing to work. As if they wanted to help him make a wish come true, as if they wanted to enable him to make everything stop, to make that pain and that horrible feeling of guilt go away forever._

 _Again and again he tried to tell himself that they would have done it even without his help. Not as efficiently and much more conspicuously, but they probably would have done it all the same._

 _It didn't matter. He had helped them, whether knowingly or not, and he would never be able to make that undone._

Charlie was breathing rapidly. And flatly. He remembered the pain, the feeling of guilt – no, that wasn't quite true, he didn't just remember them, he could _feel_ them again. He could feel the tears pressing against the backs of his eyes, he could feel the queasy sensation in his stomach, he could feel the pressure on his lungs, as though the bodies of the people whose death he'd caused were burying him underneath them. He shook his head, unwilling to believe that it was true, for it couldn't be true, he couldn't live with that… But it was of no use. He knew it was true. He remembered what he'd done. And the thought occurred to him that his mind might have done well to bury that memory deep inside him.

Now, it was too late. There was no way back. Now that he remembered the truth, he couldn't make it go away again. He couldn't deny the fact that he had helped the CIA last fall, no, not the CIA, but those _people_ from the CIA, assuming they even worked or had ever worked for them. Maybe they'd just forged their badges, for their deeds had been so outrageous, so…

Charlie couldn't find words to describe them. It was so hard to make some sort of sense of it, of understanding what was going on, that ignoring what he'd found out and living like he didn't know seemed so much better an alternative. He knew he couldn't do that though. Shunning away from the truth apparently hadn't helped him last fall, but only made the situation so much worse. He had to face reality and try to understand it. So he took a deep breath and tried to bring his thoughts in order.

So the CIA – for simplicity's sake, Charlie decided to go on calling them that – had employed him. They'd told him he'd have to analyze one, maybe multiple terrorist cells and their attacks in a rather wide area, namely in the whole of Saudi Arabia and in the adjacent countries, in order to establish a pattern that would enable them to predict future attacks. Eventually he should write them an algorithm for that 'forecasting system', which they could use autonomously after he would have finished his work and returned home. And with his prediction of the first attack that Charlie had made after approximately three weeks, while he still hadn't been able to work out a complete and reliable algorithm, he'd been right. Exactly right.

That had made him suspicious. There should have been deviations. There was a lot of data from several different terrorist cells, he hadn't been able to bring them into one coherent scheme until now and his first prediction had only been an approximation, a test to see whether the data he had and the conclusions he'd drawn from it were correct. Still, his prediction had been spot-on. The problem wasn't that his conclusions were wrong, but that they fit a little _too_ well, and that too could be an indication of faulty data.

Once his mistrust had been awakened, it hadn't taken him long to unravel their deceit. However, he hadn't thought it was possible. He hadn't _wanted_ to believe it was possible. He didn't have any hard proof either, not even mathematical proof, for his equations couldn't give him objective certainty in this case, it might still have been a highly unlikely coincidence. Subjectively, however, for Charlie himself, it had been a certainty. After all, he knew his way around math and logic well enough to put two and two together, so there couldn't be a doubt about it: the CIA hadn't given him the data of attacks committed by those terrorist cells he was supposed to analyze, or at least not exclusively. For some of those attacks hadn't been committed by normal terrorists. They'd been committed by the CIA.

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They didn't follow the lead with the law enforcement agency further. If anything popped up there and Charlie showed up at one of those agencies, they would probably notify Don. True, they wouldn't do that if the project they were working on and the reason for Charlie's arrest were a secret, and in that case that thing with the rental car and the forged ID would be a bit more comprehensible, but if Charlie had been arrested in the course of a secret project, then they wouldn't tell Don anything even if he continued asking around. Don had, especially in the most recent past, far too much experience with secret law enforcement agencies to still have hope in that regard.

So they focused on the video tapes and the rental car. Amita and Larry were still busy trying to get some further information from the images with their mathematical-technical tools. Don still wasn't very optimistic. The camera on the CalSci compound only gave them a view of the parking lot, and here the two 'agents' could only be seen through the windshield and in a very pixilated manner. With the images of the other camera, the one from the rental car company, the problem was the disguise. Still, by now they had released the image despite the baseball cap and the sun glasses and distributed it to all the other law enforcement agencies.

It had also occurred to them to try and find out more about the agents Charlie had met last fall. If the two cases were connected, that would be a promising lead. However, the security feeds of that time had long been overwritten by now, in fact so often that neither Larry and Amita nor the FBI tech guys could restore the data. They tried asking students and faculty members if they remembered anything about the agents that had been at CalSci the day Charlie had accepted his assignment, but they were all aware that it was a pathetically thin lead.

And now, there was nothing more Don could do. Even worse, he just couldn't shake the feeling that there had to be something he could do, that he just couldn't think of it. It couldn't be that they were stuck already, right? It couldn't be that they were already at their wits' end as to how to proceed? There had to be something they could do…

But Don couldn't think of anything. His mind was empty. Maybe due to the lack of sleep. Since there hadn't been anything to do yesterday evening either, he'd eventually gone home and finally replied to his father's upset calls in person. His Dad had already been well informed, too well for Don to give him much further information, and that fact hadn't really enhanced his mood. In the end, he'd spent a very short and very restless night at Charlie's house before he'd come back here to the office. But here, his musings of the past night had just continued without ever coming to a stop: where was Charlie? How was he? Who had kidnapped him? And why? What were they going to do to him?

And would Don ever find him?

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They'd taken his watch and this time, his cell didn't even have a window. He could only assume that it was night when they turned off the lights, but there was no way to be sure. He was lying tightly curled up underneath the thin blanket and listened into the darkness. Maybe they just wanted to lull him into a false sense of security by turning off the lights? Maybe they would come back any minute to haul him up and interrogate him again? Wasn't it time for them to come back? He hadn't left this cell until now, was that by design? Did they intend on just leaving him here? But for what? For how long?

When would they come back?

The question was occupying his thinking so much that he had trouble putting his plan into action and working out a strategy how to deal with his opponents in the future. He'd already decided that he would play dumb and act as though he didn't remember anything about his assignment last fall and about their machinations. That however raised the questions which things he would know also with the memory loss, what he would be able to deduce and how he would act. He had to be damn careful if he wanted to keep them from noticing that he was deceiving them.

Charlie snorted softly. 'Deceiving'. Compared to what the CIA had done to him, his form of 'deceit' was so trivial… They had used him. They had told him he should help people. Instead, he'd killed people.

The nausea came back with a vengeance and in an attempt to make it dissolve, Charlie concentrated on trying to find out what the CIA's motives might be and have been. They had committed terrorist attacks, that much he knew with almost absolute certainty. Not all the attacks he'd analyzed, but some of them. In any event they'd committed the attack he'd 'predicted', which was what had made him see through their game and let him find out about the double structure of the attacks. He'd been able to classify the relevant attacks of the past as belonging to multiple terrorist cells, but more importantly to two distinct groups. When he'd taken a closer look, the two distinct modi operandi had been obvious: the attackers of the first group committed almost as many suicide attacks as others, the second group none at all; the first group consisted of different terrorist cells that seemed to be operating in relative autonomy from other of al Qaeda's terrorist cells, the second group had a whole different status, as though it was somehow overriding, as though their attacks were only some sort of filling in the blanks to complete a certain pattern of al Qaeda's scheme of attacks…

And that was exactly what they'd needed him for, to fill in the blanks. He should have given them the calculations that would have told them where and when and how to commit their attacks so that al Qaeda's terrorist cells seemed to be the culprits. One of the main differences between the two groups was that the CIA's attacks had occurred solely on Saudi Arabian soil whereas al Qaeda's attacks had been focused on the adjoining countries. With the CIA's intervention, it had seemed as though al Qaeda was effectively terrorizing the whole Arabian Peninsula. And Charlie's calculations, instead of preventing further terrorist attacks, had caused them, or at least caused the one he knew about, the one he'd predicted.

But why? It seemed fairly unlikely that the CIA was launching attacks to protest against the Saudi Arabian government or against industrialized governments, like the United States'. All that didn't make any sense…

But if he wanted to find out about their motives, he couldn't just ask why they would commit terror attacks, for that wasn't all they had done. They hadn't just launched the attacks, they had wanted to make everyone believe that al Qaeda was committing those attacks. That seemed to be the only reason why they had used Charlie to collaborate with them. So they had wanted to make it look like the real terrorists were committing far more crimes and as though they were much more dangerous and powerful than it seemed to be the case already. But why, why…

A noise made him flinch, the slamming of a door. He held his breath. Tense, he listened for further noises, listened if there was anything going on. His eyes were wide open and he was staring into the darkness that didn't disclose him anything. For some anxious minutes he was lying there, certain that they would come in any minute and get him.

But nothing happened. This time, they reprieved him.

Once again, Charlie wondered what they would do to him next. Interrogate him? What for? To find out if he was still a threat to their plans? And how would the answer to that question influence their further actions? Would they let him go if he somehow managed to convince them that he didn't remember anything?

Hardly. Charlie still didn't know what motives exactly lay at the bottom of his opponents' crimes, but even without knowing their motives, he knew that they were dangerous. And unscrupulous. They had sacrificed so many innocent people for their goals without hesitating and were probably prepared to go on doing that. There had to be a reason why they hadn't gotten rid of him yet. Were they afraid that the FBI might go after them? Or were they hoping to get information from him, information that he didn't even remember he had, maybe there was something of significance that was still unknown to him? What did they want? What would they do to him?

And would Don ever find him?


	27. Mind Games

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1

* * *

27\. Mind Games

Mike Kirtland yawned and looked at the clock of his computer. Seven twenty-three. The sun must have come up already. Down here, however, they were living by another time. It was day when the lights were on, and it was night when they switched them off. Their generator was their sun and their rhythm of life was determined by themselves.

They weren't far beneath the face of the earth, maybe one or two yards, but it was enough to hide them completely. In this secluded area, nobody would be looking for them anyway. Or for the professor.

"Dan?" Mike called when he saw his colleague pass in front of his door. He didn't wait for a response because he knew he wouldn't get one, but instead went on immediately, "So what about the professor? Shouldn't we try interrogating him again?"

Daniel Rosenthal appeared in the door again. "Why? Doesn't hurt to let him dangle for another bit."

"You sure about that?"

They had agreed unanimously that they didn't want to have another disaster like last fall. True, Mike didn't have much experience in interrogation tactics – even less if one didn't count what he'd seen on television – and what he'd seen last fall had been enough for him. Seeing what they'd done to the professor had left him quite uneasy. But then, he'd told himself that what the others were doing to him was none of his business, he was only the hacker of their group, even though Rosenthal had known that he had more down pat in respect of technology than hacking when he, with the help of enticing promises, had coaxed him into coming on board. However, despite those enticing promises, there had been a time when Mike had started to have doubts last fall. What they'd done to the professor had been nothing short of torture, even though it was mostly of a psychological kind. Mike had soon realized though what psychological torture could do to a perfectly normal, rational human being like the professor. Alright, the end justified the means – but Mike was set on not witnessing something like that a second time.

"Of course I'm sure," Rosenthal replied in his lapidary manner. "Don't worry, I've got everything under control. The longer we leave the professor alone, the more insecure he gets and the more likely he'll cooperate with us."

"And if he goes completely nuts? What do we do then? Do you want to make him be put him in some sort of mental clinic again?"

Rosenthal shrugged. "Our situation changed," he said vaguely. "And his, too. We first have to find out what he knows and how he reacts. If he believes what we told him, he may agree to our proposal and in this case, we all get what we want and nobody will ever be the wiser. He'll be here voluntary and do his work, we can use his expertise until the project's done and he won't even tell anyone afterwards about our little deal." He grinned. "After all, it's a secret government project."

"But if he doesn't believe he's guilty of something?"

"Let's just keep watching him, see how he's acting and in a couple of hours or so we'll question him again and see what he knows and whether he wants to cooperate. Until now, he seems to be doing okay, right? No reason to think he's going nuts again."

Mike raised his eye-brows doubtfully, changing the windows on his screen so that he could see the video feed from the professor's cell. He'd been lying there for hours now, curled up on his bed like a child. And whenever he wasn't lying on his bed, he was always going back and forth, back and forth within those few square feet, like a lion in a cage. To Mike, it didn't seem like the professor's mental state was currently all that stable.

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"Oh my G-d, I don't believe it!"

Her three colleagues turned around to Megan with surprise. It was Tuesday afternoon and Charlie was officially missing for a little more than twenty-four hours now, but it seemed to them like much longer, even though they had hardly any results to show. But maybe that was about to change; in any event Megan's upset utterance was a clear indication for that.

She was still holding her hands to her head when she finally enlightened the three men about her agitation. "Can you believe how stupid we are?" Don could have replied to that with a lot of things, but his feeling of guilt kept him from talking, so maybe it was good that Megan continued without waiting for an answer, "Those guys kidnapped him _from CalSci_!"

Don, David and Colby exchanged uncomprehending and slightly worried glances – was everything alright with Megan? Of course Charlie had been kidnapped from CalSci, they'd known that right from the start. So what?

"Can't you see it?" she said excitedly. She stood from her chair and the big movements of her hands showed her inner commotion. "They could have arrested Charlie just as easily at home, but they've never been to his home, for Alan would have surely told us that! So they must have known that Charlie on that day at that time would be on campus!"

The three men stared at her. Right… how had those men known where to find Charlie? Still, they were a bit skeptical and considered Megan's idea more critically.

"And why not?" David finally asked. "When we used to look for Charlie, we always assumed he was at CalSci too, not at home."

"Yes, but when we used to look for Charlie, he hadn't been gone for half a year before that!" she reminded her colleagues. "He doesn't work there anymore, David."

"But maybe those guys don't know that," Colby supported his partner's criticism.

"If we assume that they have something to do with Charlie's disappearance last fall, they must know that."

"But that's only an assumption; we don't have any evidence for that and only a few indications," David reminded her.

"Still, we should try and determine whether Charlie's been watched," Don decided. "Ask the neighbors if they noticed anything suspicious."

Before any of them could utter another word, Don had already risen from his desk chair and disappeared into the kitchen.

The feeling of guilt had returned with a vengeance and didn't allow him to repress it. Not only that he had let Charlie go to his assignment to begin with. Not only that he hadn't looked out for him well enough. Not only that their investigation was moving along so slowly and futilely. No, now Charlie might even have been under observation and Don hadn't noticed a thing.

He _should_ have noticed, right? After all, he was a federal agent, he knew a lot of surveillance techniques and was also trained in recognizing them. So why hadn't he picked up on that here, where it really would have mattered?

Of course he knew that none of them were blaming him. They would all tell him that _nobody_ had noticed anything, that none of them would be to blame for what had happened, including Don. That it wasn't Don's job to keep his brother save.

But what did those words mean when Don couldn't shake the thought that maybe Charlie might still be with them if he'd done something differently?

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 _Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat_ _._

Charlie had laid one hand on his heart, counting the beats. Maybe that way he would get his sense of time back. He was well aware, however, that it was too late now. Even with this method, reconstructing the number of the past minutes or hours or days would hardly be possible.

In his mind, Charlie dismissed the 'days' again. Until now, they hadn't given him anything to eat or drink and therefore, from a purely biological point of view, not more than three or maybe four days could have passed. And even if Charlie was thirsty, the feeling was still bearable. He estimated that he was being held here for roughly a day. Therefore, it had to be around Tuesday evening.

What were they going to do to him? What were their plans? Did they even intend on coming into his cell ever again? Or would they just leave him alone forever? Were they even still there? Every now and then he thought he could hear a noise, but that might also come from outside (even though it didn't sound like it) or he might only have imagined it.

Just like the steps he was hearing now. They were coming closer… closer… closer yet – they stopped. They had to be directly before the door to Charlie's cell.

He sat up. He was waiting motionlessly, every single muscle tensed. He tried to be prepared for everything. Soon the door would open – _please make it open_ – soon they would come in – _please let them come in_ – and then… _Please don't make them do anything to me…_

A key was turned in the lock and the door swung open, slamming against the wall. Charlie flinched.

"Stand up, back to the door, hands behind your head!"

His heart beating painfully, Charlie obeyed, his thoughts staying with the movements of those two men. What were they doing with him? What were they going to do?

One of them was pulling down his hands forcefully on his back and put handcuffs on him. They led him along a few short corridors and Charlie was very sure that they were the same as earlier, the ones they had led him through the night before. In any case, he was sure that it was the same man that was sitting at the table in his dark suit, waiting for him. Charlie was back in the interrogation room.

"So, Doctor Eppes? How are you?"

Charlie wondered what on earth he should reply to that brainless question. "Fine," he said eventually, both so that he wouldn't irritate his kidnappers and to confront them with the absurdity of their question. "I'm just rather thirsty. And hungry."

"This is a deficiency we'll be able to remedy shortly," the suit said with a false smile.

He gave his people a sign, not more than a short wave of his hand, and one of them put a bottle of water and a quite fresh looking sandwich in front of Charlie while the other one took off the handcuffs.

Charlie hesitated. His fingers were itching, but he didn't dare to give in to the urge. Now, at this sight, his hunger and thirst were increasing to astronomical heights, but he remained unwavering. Maybe this was just a trick? Maybe they would punish him as soon as he made a move to get to those aliments?

"Go on," the other man encouraged him, "help yourself. After all, we're no ogres."

Something about his words made Charlie look up at him and what he saw was more than his eyes presented him with.

" _Take a break whenever you need one, be it to eat or sleep or just to regenerate. After all, we're no ogres."_

 _Charlie had only given him half a smile. The cold eyes, enthroned above an almost sardonic grin, were still giving him the creeps. A bit uncertain, he looked around in the tiny room. There were three computers in here, but not much more. Not even a real window, just the look outside at a concrete wall directly beneath the ceiling. And that was supposed to be his workspace for the following month? Now those were bright-looking prospects._

 _At least he had a certain liberty concerning his time management – even though he knew he wouldn't be too generous with himself with taking breaks._

" _As I said before, just turn to Agent Johnson if there's anything on your mind. And now, I'd like to wish you successful work."_

" _Thank you, Agent Rosenthal."_

"Dr. Eppes? Are you still with us?"

Only gradually, Charlie managed to come out of his almost trance-like state. "I'm sorry. What did you just say?" _Just don't let them know_ , he thought fervently, he just couldn't let them know that he hadn't only recognized the man in front of him, but that he'd finally been able to give him a name.

"I asked whether you can remember now, Professor."

Charlie flinched. Rosenthal couldn't have noticed that he –? No… no, surely not, how would he know? No, Rosenthal and his colleagues were still thinking that he couldn't remember a thing… right?

Charlie watched his opponent carefully. The presumptuous grin was still there, as though the agent still didn't believe he had indeed lost his memory. But Charlie could also see the tension in the other the other man's eyes. Rosenthal was evidently nervous and Charlie had a certain idea why. These guys had to be hoping fervently that he was indeed unable to regain his memory. Otherwise he'd be an incalculable risk for their further terrorist plots, if they were still planning those.

So judging from his tension, they didn't know anything about his flashbacks and about how their frequency steadily increased. That was good. In light of that, Charlie decided to act as unknowing as possible. Better still if he combined it with some naivety, similar to his behavior the previous evening.

"I still don't know what you're talking about. Let me go."

He didn't need any acting skills for seeming tired. The past events, including the past twenty-four hours of completely isolated imprisonment, had worn him down considerably.

"Stop playing ignorant!" the agent jumped down his throat, and even though Charlie was pretty sure that he believed what he told him (which wasn't that far from the truth either!), he flinched. "It's of no use. We know that you're merely looking for an excuse to elude the consequences of your deeds. But playing dumb won't help you. You are and remain a terrorist, whether you remember or not. And you'd better believe me when I say that it'd be a whole lot better for you if you remembered and finally confessed. For you can be sure of one thing: you may have forgotten all about your project last fall, but we haven't forgotten about you."

Charlie swallowed, trying to get his composure back. "I still don't know what you want from me."

"We want you to confess to your crimes, Professor. I think we've made that fairly clear."

"And then why did you kidnap me? And where's my lawyer?"

"Dr. Eppes, we talked about this yesterday; we're going in circles and frankly, I'm getting tired of it. What do you even want with a lawyer? Not even a lawyer can make unhappen what you did, so they'll be of no help to you. But they could be harmful to you. Right now, nobody knows about your terrorist activities. Everyone thinks you're an upstanding citizen, and except for your behavior last fall, that might even be true. But as soon as you consult a lawyer, that's over, for then, everything starts getting out to the public. However, if you collaborate with us, we'll be able to settle this without much ado."

If there had still been any left, Charlie's trust in his kidnappers' righteousness would be completely shattered now. Settling things without much ado – with terrorists? That almost made him understand his father's past as a political activist.

However, he'd opted for naivety. "And what would that mean, 'settle this'?"

"I would think we already explained that yesterday. Your memory seems indeed rather deficient." His smile became broader, but it remained ice-cold. "If you consent to bring your mathematical abilities into the government's service again and in this way fight terrorism together with us, you'd be able to thereby cancel out your own crimes to a certain degree."

"To what degree?"

"That depends on our success and on your contribution to it. If we prove successful and if you managed to fulfill your assignment to our complete satisfaction, we can actually drop the matter completely and you'll be able to live your life just like before."

Charlie didn't believe a word he was saying, but he knew better than to tell Rosenthal his thoughts about him. This whole interrogation was useless and potentially dangerous and that was why Charlie hesitated to voice his next question. However, it was of absolute necessity that he seemed not only naïve, but most importantly believable. "And how do you know that you can trust me?"

"We don't," the answer came like a punch in his face. "That's why we'll have to watch you."

Charlie swallowed – he didn't like the idea at all –, but tried to maintain his believability. "And you'll understand what I do and will notice at once as soon as I try to deceive you, like last time?"

"Contrary to last time, our own mathematicians will constantly have a look at your work, Dr. Eppes, and this time you won't have the liberties and opportunities you had then. You may count on that."

Charlie had no problem believing that, but nonetheless this assurance didn't give him a very pleasant feeling.

"But judging from your words," Rosenthal continued, "I assume that you're ready to confess your crimes from last fall and that you're admitting to remembering your deeds. Therefore I assume that you're now willing to accept the government's generous offer?"

Charlie was silent.

"Well, Dr. Eppes?"

"I'd like to think about it for a little bit."

"I'm afraid you can't," the answer came with brutal simplicity. "You had enough time to think. Are you willing to collaborate on our project?"

Charlie swallowed. He hadn't expected that. He'd hoped to be able to postpone his decision for another bit. What was there he could tell them without infuriating them? Nothing, he could only accept. And he couldn't do that. If he did that, he'd be forced again to give them the basis for committing their attacks…

"No."

The short syllable had hardly left Charlie's mouth when an indescribable fear was spreading inside him. How would his kidnappers react to that? What would they do to him?

"I'm sorry, Professor?" Beneath the gentleness, there was a stridence that couldn't be missed and that unmistakably connoted danger. "What was that?"

Charlie swallowed again and it was as if he was thereby encouraging himself. He could see images of Don, of his dad, of Amita, of Larry float in front of his inner eye and wondered how they might react if he consented to this. The imagination strengthened his decision enough to cover his fear and enable him to go through with it. "No," he said, his voice much firmer now than before. "I won't help you with your… project."

Despite his conviction, his courage crumbled to dust when he looked into Rosenthal's eyes, and he couldn't shake a very distinct feeling that he'd just given them the wrong answer.


	28. Hope

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1

* * *

28\. Hope

"Oh boy," Mike only said as soon as they'd taken the professor back to his cell. Daniel Rosenthal pretended not to have heard him, simply because Mike wanted him to react to his stupid 'oh boy'.

But of course that wouldn't deter Mike from annoying him. "That's not looking good," he continued in the tone of someone who intended to initiate a spirited briefing with his boss.

Rosenthal couldn't hold back any longer. As a hacker, Kirtland was indispensable, but sometimes, all that this tech freak seemed capable of was to get on his nerves. "How do you figure it's not looking good?" Rosenthal snapped at him. "Eppes is at the end of his tether. It's only a matter of hours until he cooperates."

"But he declined."

"So what? Would it be the first time that we changed someone's mind?"

"But… what if he cracks again?"

"For G-d's sake, Mike, just leave it alone! Trust me, we'll take good care that our good little doctor doesn't misplace any of his marbles. You just go sit there at your computer and let me do the planning."

He had been wishing for it. He hadn't even dared hoping that Mike would actually shut up for once, but he'd been wishing for it. It hadn't been enough to hope though, he just knew him too well by now. "But… you've seen the professor yourself. How he totally blacks out sometimes, real scary. How he sometimes doesn't even hear you anymore."

"That could be because of the depression or because he's trying to remember."

"And if sooner or later that works?"

"That he remembers? Come on. If he's been unable to remember for half a year, that won't suddenly change here and now."

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" _You can't hold me here forever." Charlie ardently tried to convince himself with that._

 _However, the apparently ever-present sardonic grin made that attempt fail. "You can't even begin to imagine, Professor, the things we can do."_

 _Charlie swallowed. Still, he was prepared to do whatever was in his power to make his adversary change his mind. "My brother's surely already looking for me." And Charlie was hoping, hoping so much, that what he was saying was true._

 _Agent Johnson gave him a sneering laugh. "That's what you're hoping for? That on the outside, there are people looking for you? How naïve are you? No one – I'm telling you, no one! – is looking for you. Those people out there don't care a damn about you." He paused for a second while he made a half-turn as though he was about to leave Charlie alone again, then turned back around to face him. All of a sudden, his voice sounded a bit more human. "I really don't understand why you're still so adamant to shut your eyes to the truth. Those people out there don't want you to come back. Your family wants you to serve your country, can't you see that? What do you think your brother would say if you came back without having completed your assignment?"_

 _Charlie's gaze became fickle as though it was wavering along with his conviction._

A desperate smile crept on Charlie's face. 'Your family wants you to serve your country' – that might be true. But it was sure as night followed day that Don wouldn't have wanted his brother engaging in terrorist activities. And even though last fall Johnson had succeeded in making him waver and doubt everything, it now occurred to Charlie that Don hadn't even wanted him to accept the assignment in the first place, so there wasn't much chance he would have wanted him to continue his work and help the CIA after they'd deprived him of his freedom. So that meant that this time, he'd given them exactly the answer Don would have liked him to give them. And Charlie was firm in his decision, he wouldn't become a criminal again, no matter what they were going to do to him. He had denied their 'offer' and he'd been right in doing so, perfectly right…

And if he was wrong?

All of a sudden, it occurred to Charlie what possibilities accepting the offer would have opened up to him. He would have gained a better idea of what those CIA terrorists were planning to do. He wouldn't be alone in this cell the whole time, but more likely back in some kind of office, in front of a computer. Maybe even in front of a computer that was connected to some kind of network so that he would have been able to let someone on the outside know what was going on? Maybe he would have been able to find out where he was?

In any case, he would have had some influence on the following events. And maybe he would have even been able to give them calculations of a kind that would make sure that their attacks wouldn't hurt anybody? Or maybe even of a kind that led other law enforcement agencies on their track?

All those possibilities, however, were gone now. So maybe he'd made a mistake after all? Would it have been better to promise the CIA terrorists his help – even though it would have only been in pretence?

Then, however, he remembered how it had been half a year ago. And just a while ago. He remembered what he'd done, and he still felt so immensely bad and filthy because of it. What if he'd consented, for pretence, and for some reason he would have been unable to protect those human lives, what if people would have died again because of his calculations?

So maybe his intuition had been right after all. For this would have been too much. He couldn't have lived with having caused people's deaths again. Last time was more than enough. The thought of it was still compressing his lungs and made his thoughts fly about aimlessly as though they were trying to escape from him even though he knew that he would never be able to escape from them, never from his thoughts and never from himself. He was doomed to live with his deed and would never be able to undo it and never again be able to ban the horrendous truth from his memory: he had people's lives on his conscience.

Charlie shuddered, but that wasn't apt to shake off his inner cold.

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David and Colby were ringing the bell. Again. Colby, his sun-glasses protectively in front of his eyes, looked to the right and behind himself. Again. At the same time, David first checked the nameplate, then glanced to one of the windows and finally to his left and behind himself. Again. Then, they could hear footsteps and the door was opened for them. Again. David wondered (again) how many more times they would have to do this until they finally received a clue that would enable them to move this investigation along. Just like every other time, that thought was closely followed by the question what would put an end to this marathon of witness interviews, a clue that would put them in the right direction or going out of houses where a witness interview would be useful, which would make them clueless yet again.

"Hello?" the middle-aged woman greeted them with a distinctly questioning tone in her voice.

"Hello, Mrs. Jenkins. I'm Special Agent David Sinclair and this is Special Agent Colby Granger. We're with the FBI and we would like to ask you some questions."

They showed her their badges, which the woman took in with eyes that were widened with surprise. "FBI? Did something happen?"

 _Of course something happened, why else would we be here,_ Colby thought. He had heard this question too often both in his job history and today alone not to be annoyed by it.

"It's about Professor Charles Eppes," David replied and the woman gave a notable sigh of relief, probably because she and her family weren't affected directly by this affair. "He lives on the other side of the street, a few houses down."

Mrs. Jenkins nodded. She knew the young professor by sight and also knew a thing or two about the Eppes family, just the stuff you talked about among neighbors. "I've heard about what happened. Awful, just awful."

"Do you happen to know anything that might help us determine his current location?" David asked.

The woman frowned. "Location? But… he's dead. He was buried, that was… several weeks ago."

 _Several months, to be exact_ , Colby silently corrected her and at the same time understood what was going on. "The notification of his death last fall was based on a misunderstanding," he informed her as briefly as possible. "Two days ago, though, Professor Eppes disappeared again, and we assume that he's been kidnapped." He didn't give her an opportunity to express her dismay other than by the look on her face – one of her neighbors had been kidnapped?! And she'd thought this neighborhood was safe! – but went on immediately, "Maybe you noticed something during the past few days? Maybe a parked car that doesn't belong here or someone you haven't seen here before?"

Mrs. Jenkins, still busy with processing the new and shocking information, shook her head. "No… that is, a week or so ago, they must have gone on vacation, for the house was dark and the newspaper was lying out front. At least that's what Mrs. Connally told me, she lives in number 873, directly opposite them."

David suppressed a sigh. That Don and Alan had been in Nebraska was something they already knew. "Anything else?" he asked hopefully.

Again the shake of the head. "No, I'm sorry."

The two federal agents thanked her, said Mrs. Jenkins goodbye and continued their marathon with a little less hope than before.

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" _Eppes."_

" _Hey, Dad."_

" _Charlie! How are you? How's your… how's it going?"_

" _Fine… and the work's going fine, too, Dad. Don't worry, I'm good here, really." Truth be spoken, he still found it all a bit creepy, but by and by, he was getting used to his new workspace, and his work was starting to pick up pace._

" _Have you talked to Don yet?"_

 _For a moment, Charlie felt a great desire to end the call there and then. "No," he said, and all of a sudden, he was very terse. "Can we talk about something else?"_

" _Of course. How about you tell me a little about your work? And who you're working with? And since we're already at it, maybe at this occasion I'll learn on which continent my son is currently staying?"_

" _Dad, please…"_

" _Don's worried about you, Charlie, just like I am. And by now you've been gone for four days and you still didn't consider it necessary to give him a call?"_

" _I'm very busy here, Dad. Besides…" Charlie hesitated, but he was growing tired of his father's pushing. "Besides, Don would just harangue me again and explain to me what I'm doing wrong or what I did do wrong again this time. And he'd try to grill me about the assignment although he knows fully well that I'm not allowed to tell him anything. He's just still pissed that I took the job without consulting him first and didn't let him order me around."_

" _That's not true, Charlie, and you know it. Just give him a call. Or do you intend on not talking to him at all for the entire month?"_

' _Wouldn't be the first time,' Charlie was about to answer, but something held him back. It was true, a couple of years ago, the contact between his brother and him had been reduced to the bare necessities. He'd never really been able to reconcile himself to that, though. And somehow, he felt and hoped and thought that this time of alienation was over now and had given way to a new era, one of brotherly connectedness._

* * *

" _Eppes."_

" _Hi, Don." It sounded a little stiff._

" _Charlie!"_ _That_ _did not sound stiff. "Hey… how are you? Dad said you're… how're you doing?"_

 _Welcome back, unwanted nervousness. But somehow, it made him feel better that Don was apparently feeling just as awkward with this conversation as himself._

" _I'm fine. You?" Oh boy, would they ever manage to say something at least slightly meaningful today?_

" _Yeah, me too, listen…"_

 _I am, Don, but if I'm supposed to listen, you're supposed to talk._

" _I'm…" Yeah…? "I won't keep pestering you to tell me about your assignment, okay? But only if you promise to tell me that you give me a call as soon as something seems fishy or dangerous to you. Okay?"_

 _Wow. For a moment, Charlie was speechless. They'd come to the meaningful part much sooner than he'd expected._

" _Okay," he eventually agreed._

 _They were silent for a moment before Charlie began to talk again, a still slightly hesitant grin on his face, "Hey, Dad told me you're worried. You're getting soft."_

 _A short moment of hesitation, but then Charlie could hear from his brother's voice that he too was grinning. "Me and soft? Wait, me and_ _worried_ _? Oh no, Chuck. I'm sure you must have misunderstood something. Or Dad's getting old."_

" _Let's agree on the latter."_

" _Alright. But listen, we should keep this to ourselves. Because for an old man, he still makes some damn good lasagna."_

In his memory, Charlie could hear himself laugh, but now, the thought of that time only caused a smile that could hardly be sadder. It only now occurred to him that he'd broken his promise. When he'd found out about the CIA terrorists' misdoings, he'd been so upset he hadn't stopped for a second to think about the consequences – or to call Don and tell him about his suspicion. Now he didn't have that opportunity anymore. Just like during his assignment, he was separated from the people that were important to him, but back then, he'd at least been able to have _some_ sort of contact to the world outside. He'd been able to converse with his family and his friends, even though he'd granted himself only few minutes a day to spend thinking of his real life, usually before going to bed, since at that point of time he'd been too tired to effectively work anyway. Besides, talking to them before going to bed had distracted him from the magnitude of his work and given him all the calm he'd needed to spend some restorative hours of sleep. Yes, those phone calls during his assignment had given him strength, and now he was longing so much to get them back that it hurt.

By now he'd asked himself why they had even granted him that connection to the outside world. After all, he could have given them information about the project. And maybe then, someone from the outside world, someone with access to other data than himself, might have found out what kind of deception was going on.

On the other hand, he realized that they had never expected him to find out the truth, and denying him any contact to anyone on the outside would only have made him mistrustful and wary. Still, a nagging suspicion had started to form in his mind, and by now he was almost certain that it was true: from what he'd found out about his former employers, it was highly unlikely that they'd just trusted him not to tell anybody anything that would have given the outside world an opportunity to uncover the truth. It was far more likely that they'd made sure he kept his non-disclosure agreement – and that meant that, with all probability, they'd been spying on him, they'd listened in at the conversations he'd had with his dad and with Don and with Larry and with Amita.

As things stood now, that wouldn't bother him anymore. They could listen in all they wanted. If he could only talk to one of them again, hear their voices, he'd be overjoyed already. However, he wasn't deluding himself. The period of relative imprisonment was over. This wasn't relative anymore, this was absolute. They wouldn't let him go on a long leash again. He was their prisoner and that he'd remain, barring a miracle.


	29. Results

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1

* * *

29\. Results

"Did you find anything?"

David grimaced almost painfully. And it did hurt him to see Don like that, so panicked, so inappropriately hopeful while at the same time, David could almost sense his fear. And it hurt him even more since he knew that his answer would deprive Don a little more of that remainder of hope.

"Nothing," he said and was unable to look his friend into his eyes.

Don didn't want to believe it. Understandably. "Nothing at all? How is that possible? If Charlie's been watched, someone _must_ have noticed something!"

"Maybe we overlooked something again," Megan chimed in.

The two men turned around to face her. Contrary to Don, she'd remained sitting more or less calmly on her seat when David had approached them.

David shook his head. "We interviewed everyone in the neighborhood. Nobody saw anything."

Megan looked at Don with unusual diffidence. "And neither did you and your dad, right?"

"No, damn it!" he exclaimed and Megan flinched, although she'd expected a reaction of that kind. "There was no-one! …I think."

Megan decided to leave him alone. He hadn't noticed any form of danger or even anything out of the ordinary and to remind him of that wouldn't help them in their search of Charlie.

"Maybe we looked in the wrong place," Colby called out at them, still some yards away. He was approaching them hastily with four cups of coffee in his hands that slopped a bit when he put them down on Megan's desk. Megan raised her eye-brows, not because of Colby's slightly rude behavior, but rather because of her surprise about this unusual courtesy – until she realized that getting coffee had spared Colby delivering Don the bad news.

"And where else should we be looking, Colby?" Don asked and sounded distinctly irritated.

"At the house, of course! Until now we assumed that those guys were tailing Charlie, but that would have been risky and completely unnecessary! They could have simply installed cameras or bugs or other equipment at your house!"

Don stared at him and eventually started nodding slowly. "Okay," he said. "We're going there. Let's grab a team of forensics and get going."

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They were going in two cars and Megan was glad about that. She didn't know about David and Colby, but she hadn't been fooled by Don's show of calm determination. She could see very distinctly how agitated he was, how afraid to make another mistake. Therefore, it was good that it was only the two of them in the car so that Don could open up without risking embarrassment or whatever else he was trying to accomplish by sealing himself off.

She sighed deeply, bracing herself for a fierce reaction from her boss. "Don't you think we should hand the case off to someone else?"

Don turned his head around to face her so abruptly that for a moment, she was afraid he might cause an accident. "You've got to be kidding. And I have to tell you that I'm really not in the mood for that right now."

"I'm not kidding, Don." Megan remained firm. "Come on, you can't deny that we're making mistake upon mistake. We can't see the wood for the trees. Missing all those indications for observation having occurred in Charlie's house – that would have never happened to us with another case."

"And just because of that you want to give the case away? Megan, I'm not sure if you noticed, but this is about Charlie!"

"Exactly," she said forcefully. "That's why we can no longer take on the responsibility for this. Charlie's been missing for almost 60 hours now, Don! Our progress is much too slow, we're far too biased! We worry too much about Charlie instead of figuring out how to find him!"

They'd arrived at the Craftsman and Don brought the car to a sudden stop. He turned around to face her, and a shudder ran down her spine. She could see so much determination in Don's features that it seemed dangerous to contradict him. "Do you really think I've spent only a minute with anything else than thinking about how we can get him back?" His voice was low, but thanks to his clear articulation, which could easily stem from suppressed anger, she had no trouble at all understanding him. "We won't hand off this case to someone else. _We're_ going to look for Charlie – and you can be damn sure we're gonna find him!"

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"Are you done yet?"

"Almost," Amita answered while staring highly-focused at her computer screen. She made some entries, her laptop beeped and than showed her that it was working at full blast.

"Alright," she said. "I entered the dataset and if I adjusted the program correctly, we should get a clearer image as soon as the computer is done. Right?"

Larry was a bit surprised about this question that revealed an insecurity that wasn't appropriate in this situation. "Of course," he said. "I don't see any problem with our methodology, and you also have to consider that this program has already worked once."

Amita nodded. "I know. But that time it was Charlie who did the analysis."

Larry sighed. He knew how deeply Amita felt about Charlie, and his own emotions were just as strong. However, he also knew that they could neither wallow in self-pity nor lose their self-confidence and thereby their hope if they wanted to get him back quickly and safely.

"Amita, I won't deny that Charlie is a mathematical genius – but so are you."

"And then why am I unable to help him!?"

Larry flinched. Amita had accompanied her fierce words with a just as fierce blow of her hand at the table, which made Larry's head whirl around, away from the chalkboard and towards her. This way, he couldn't miss the tears that were swimming in her eyes.

Amita's fierceness was gone as quickly as it had come, and what remained was desperation. "Why are we unable to help him, Larry?"

Larry had to swallow. He'd asked himself the same question again and again: why was there only so little they could do? He'd been about to lose himself in his pessimistic musings, he'd been unable to summon up any more hope that they'd be able to do something for Charles. The fear had effectively paralyzed his mind and kept him imprisoned in a dangerous kind of pessimism from which only Megan had been able to free him. She had even given him enough strength so that now, he was able to lift Amita's spirits as well.

"We are able to help him," he therefore contradicted her and was relieved when he noticed that his voice sounded relatively firm. "There may not be much that we can do, but the things that we can do, we will do, and it is going to help Don and Megan and David and Colby to find him."

Amita looked up at him, and there were both lack of comprehension and new-born hope in her eyes. "How can you be so sure of that?"

"It's simple logic. Since we won't stop looking for him until we find him, we're going to find him."

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"I've got another one!" Steve Marroway, a member of the forensics team, called out, holding out towards them the fourth bug of the day (or rather, of the night). Then he scrambled back down from the countertop next to the oven and handed it over to his team leader.

Out of the corners of his eyes, Don noticed his father turn around and leave the kitchen, probably also leaving the house. Don, too, had mixed feelings as he stared at the little technical marvel. On the one hand, it confirmed their conjectures and thus might very well help them on their search for Charlie – but on the other hand, that thing was another proof that they'd been eavesdropped on in their own home, another device that had infiltrated their sphere of privacy and enabled Charlie's kidnapping.

The first bug, they'd searched and found in the phone. It was a home-made model and they'd handed it over to the lab at once, although they weren't very optimistic. The separate parts of the device looked like cheap mass merchandise, they weren't too hopeful to find fingerprints and if they weren't mistaken, that bug had been made following an instruction that could be downloaded free of charge (and more importantly: anonymously) from the internet. With some technical knowhow, a tinkerer might even have made it without any instructions at all. In any event, the model, at least at first glance, wasn't extraordinary enough to lead them to other crimes and names associated with them or to any other kind of clues.

Next, they'd found a bug under the dinner table and one in the clock at the wall. And now the one above the wall cupboard in the kitchen.

Don sighed. How many bugs might there still be in this house? And could they ever be certain that their house was bug-free and free of other listening or observation devices? Or were they still being watched now, while they were looking for further technical gadgets that didn't belong here?

The only way to be safe or at least safer in their own home would be to find the one that had installed the bugs. And if they found that guy, they would probably be able to find Charlie, too. But if they didn't find him…

Don could feel the tiredness descend upon him and knew that it wasn't just because it was already half past one in the morning. He was just about to escape from the restrictedness of the people-filled house and from that uncomfortable feeling that was so strange to feel in his home and join his father and keep him company for a little while in the nocturnal garden (or maybe he was in the garage? Well, he'd find him), just for a couple of minutes, just to give himself a short break to summon up strength. That was when Colby intercepted him.

"Hey, Don, forensics say that this seems to be everything. If those guys didn't find more cunning hiding-places for their bugs, the house is clear now, so the plan is that they continue the search tomorrow, just to be sure, and call it a day."

Don nodded. It went a bit against his sense of duty, but considering the late (no, _early_ ) hour, it was probably the sensible thing to do. He'd rather have the house empty as soon as possible anyway. Nevertheless, he was more than thankful that his colleagues had accepted overtime to help him on this case. That was a kind of support he needed more than ever these days.

"Alright, let's call it a day everyone," he called out and still was a little surprised when he heard the words and recognized them as his own.

Colby, too, raised his eye-brows. Don really had to be exhausted. Or maybe he just didn't know what else to do. Sure, it was more sensible to get some sleep and get back to work tomorrow with renewed strength – but since when was Don sensible when things involved Charlie?

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"I want that case."

The assistant director, James H. Burbank, looked up as the file was thrown on his desk. Of course, Edgerton, who else. It wasn't like Burbank disliked him, at least not directly. Ian Edgerton did his work and he did it well – no, he did it superbly. He was the… what, the fourth-best sniper in the world? In any case he was good enough to try not to make him one's enemy. And he was an excellent tracker. And he was very autonomous from other people. And he was a bit scary at times.

In any event, he was good enough and was held in such high esteem at the FBI that he was at liberty to choose his cases as he liked – a privilege he made use of quite frequently. Burbank had no idea by which criteria this very special Special Agent chose his cases, but as long as he solved them to the bureau's satisfaction – and that was almost always the case –, he didn't really care about those criteria, or about Edgerton's methods, as long as he adhered to certain restrictions. Still, he couldn't help but feel a certain curiosity as to which case had aroused Edgerton's attention this time.

He opened the file and recognized the face at once, albeit more from the photos he'd seen than from real life experience. But Burbank _had_ seen that man in the flesh: Clifford Wellman, 36 years old, single and – an FBI agent.

They had kept the matter under wraps. Only the investigating team and Wellman's former team – that had been inevitable – knew about it. And apparently also people with a certain security clearance and a talent for investigating, for somehow, Edgerton must have gotten access to this file, and Burbank preferred thinking he'd managed to do that in a legal manner.

"Why this case?"

Edgerton shrugged. "Sounds interesting. And I don't like guys who double-cross their own."

Burbank nodded. He too wasn't too keen on agents like Wellman who suddenly turned out to belong to the wrong side.

Almost a week ago, past Friday or Saturday, Clifford Wellman had gone into hiding. Monday morning, his team had wondered why he hadn't shown up for work – and especially why he hadn't informed anyone about that. They hadn't been able to reach him over the phone, but had gone by his place only the following day after they still hadn't heard a word from him. The apartment had been empty, the neighbors hadn't known a thing and still Wellman could not be gotten a hold of. Eventually, they'd started to go through his private life. Prior to that, they had hardly known anything about him, he'd been a loner, and during the first steps of their investigation, it had become apparent why he'd isolated himself: he had a hell of a lot to hide. On his bank accounts, they found a number of strange transactions with large sums of money, usually incoming, and when they checked his phone record, they realized that he had quite a lot of contact with people from the CIA. However, when they'd tried to contact those, they'd been just as unavailable as Wellman.

At that point, the alarm bells started ringing for good. The assistant director forwarded the issue to the top – always adhering to the necessary security regulations, for as long as they didn't know what was going on, they had to tread as carefully as possible – and they'd decided that a team of neutral agents of impeccable reputation would carry out the investigation. However, that team's efforts had remained effectless until now. Clifford Wellman seemed to have vanished into thin air. Since they still wanted to keep the matter under wraps, they couldn't put out an APB on him either, and thus they had to try and reconstruct his getaway route instead.

And doing that, Ian Edgerton would be of invaluable service.

"Alright. I assume you have the contact information for the investigating team?"

Edgerton nodded. "Of course."

"Do you already know where they are? If you want to find –"

But just as he'd expected, Edgerton stopped him short. "That won't be necessary. I work better alone."

Burbank nodded. Yeah, he knew that. And as long as Edgerton didn't hold back important information from the team or his supervisors, he should get what he wanted. After all, this matter had to be cleared up fast. By any means available.


	30. Doubt and Certainty

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1  
 **A/N:** Sorry about the long wait, but me and my friend, the internet, are having some troubles that we can't seem to work out.

* * *

30\. Doubt and Certainty

While Ian was conversing with his supervisor, Colby, a couple of hundreds of miles away, stepped into the FBI building. He'd thought to be here early, but upon his arrival he saw his three colleagues already sitting in their cubicles.

"Hey, you started without me," he greeted them with half a smile, one that was unusually insecure for him. But despite the graveness of the situation, he didn't think it was very wise to be moping for the whole time. That would only render them depressive and not help them at all.

"Don't worry," David replied, but Colby didn't think the smile on his face was a hundred percent genuine. Still, it was better than the rigid features of his boss. "We only came in a couple of minutes ago ourselves."

"Which is why we should finally get to work. We have to think about how to proceed now. Any ideas?" Don looked around, from one to the other, not briefly enough for Colby to miss the dark smudges under his eyes, but not long enough either to give them time to answer before he went on, "I think we should make further inquiries about that trucker who found Charlie and brought him to the hospital. See if there's something hinky about him, and if not, see where he found Charlie, maybe retrace his steps from there."

"But we don't even know why Charlie was being watched yet," David said. "And by whom. Shouldn't we follow that lead instead of focusing on his first disappearance? I mean, we still don't know if this has anything to do with what happened last fall."

Even though it looked as if Don could hardly keep his red-rimmed eyes open, he somehow managed to make them glint dangerously. "Alright David, now listen very carefully: Charlie has disappeared half a year ago while working on some project for some secret agency, and nobody knows anything about what happened back then, we only know that he didn't come back and that this agency declared him dead although he's obviously still alive, so don't try to make me believe that his disappearance now has nothing to do with his damned assignment last fall!"

"But David's right," Megan objected, though a bit hesitantly. "It really could be just a coincidence. What does forensics say about the bugs we found at your house?"

Don held up the report he'd picked up himself at the lab just half an hour ago. "Nothing," he said. "They can't trace them back or match the design to anyone we know. Now, as long as we don't have any other leads to follow, we're going to find out what the hell happened last fall, and if we do that, we're going to find Charlie."

Colby too didn't miss that Don's behavior and the motivation for his decisions were becoming dangerous. True, he might be right in this case, and also Colby thought that the deductions they'd made seemed reasonable enough, but maybe they were overlooking something again? Maybe the answer was to be found somewhere else entirely? Don, however, wasn't trying to branch out at all, he was too focused, too fixated on this one idea, too desperate to solve this case…

 _Case_ , Colby thought with a tinge of a guilty conscience. This was far more than a case. Charlie had disappeared. Their colleague. Their friend.

"But even if it has something to do with his assignment last fall," David's voice brought Colby back, "I still can't see a reason why this agency or whoever they were should be watching Charlie now. The assignment was long over."

"Was it?" Don replied in a quite provocative manner. "Who says so?"

He didn't get an answer. Colby had to agree with him: they had no proof at all that Charlie had finished his assignment. Rather to the contrary: since they'd lost contact with him while he'd still been working on it, it was likely that he'd never finished whatever he'd been working on. In any event, the whole project seemed somehow questionable. How had that agency just lost one of their consultants? How could he have been declared dead if he had obviously still been alive? And why had the notification of his death come so late, almost a month after his disappearance and the date of death they'd given them?

"In any case we have to find out where those bugs came from," Megan said in an attempt to direct the conversation back onto a track that would help them move their investigation along.

"Wait a sec!" Colby interjected. "If those bugs really have something to do with Charlie's assignment from last fall, why did they start watching him only now that he's come back? Or were they eavesdropping on you and your Dad?"

Don thought for a minute, which currently wasn't all that easy. "Who says that Charlie hasn't been watched before?"

The others took the possibility into consideration. "You're saying," David asked, "that he might have already been watched at the clinic?"

Don nodded and seemed more and more convinced of his own idea. "It would be plausible, wouldn't it? After all, they must have learned somehow that Charlie was back in California. In any event, we should check if there might be something to it."

"Alright. I'm going to try to contact that clinic at once," David said.

"And I'll make sure we'll get a team of forensics to take a look around there, especially in Charlie's former room," Colby added.

Don nodded and the two of them vanished. Megan stayed with Don. The worried expression still hadn't left her face and Don couldn't shake the feeling that her worry was directed less at his little brother and more at himself.

His impression was about to be confirmed. "Don?" Megan asked, softly and carefully. She'd assumed her psychologist-look again. "Are you –"

But Don wouldn't let her finish. "Didn't I make myself clear?! Let's get to work!"

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Charlie jumped when there was movement at his door. He'd have to get used to this, he thought dully as he stood on slightly trembling knees.

With a firm grip on both his upper arms, he was led into the same interrogation room as last time by the same two men, but this time, the bottle of water was already placed on the table and instead of the sandwich, he found a loaf of bread next to a kind of dangerously sharp looking knife, some ham and some cheese. For a crazy moment, Charlie entertained the idea of just grabbing the knife and putting all his eggs in one basket, but he knew he wouldn't stand the slightest chance. He was on his own against an unknown number of enemies, a number equal to or greater than three. It would be pure madness.

He also resisted, with an almost superhuman effort, the urge to bite into the loaf of bread at once, and instead waited until he was seated and Rosenthal had given him a nod. "Go ahead. Help yourself."

With a greed Charlie didn't know from himself, he more tore than cut himself a slice of bread and gulped it down as it was. Rosenthal waited until he was done before he started with the part of their meeting that Charlie liked much less than the food intake.

"Alright, Professor, have you come to your senses by now? Will you finally confess to your crimes?"

It seemed as though with the food, Charlie had also taken in new amounts of self-confidence, for he remained sober and firm. "No. I didn't commit any crimes."

Rosenthal sighed. "Right. So what can you tell us about your accomplices?"

"Nothing. I don't have any accomplices."

"So you're actually trying to make us think you committed the attacks all on your own? Don't you realize that if you stick to that story, you'll have to bear the sole responsibility for those crimes?"

Charlie shook his head. He just didn't understand why they were doing this, what they were trying to accomplish by asking him those questions. He wasn't a terrorist, and they knew that... right? But if they knew that, why were they still trying to get a confession out of him – a confession which they knew to be false? It made no sense, what good was a confession to them if it couldn't serve as a way to find out the truth in an investigation?

Then it occurred to him that they had still to be counting on the fact that he didn't remember. He suppressed the urge to put his suddenly very heavy head in his hands. This game of hide and seek was not getting any easier, but he had to stay on top of it. So he knew they wanted him to collaborate with them again, they'd made that abundantly clear. They'd made it just as clear that they would see his collaboration as a way for him to atone for the crimes they were charging him with, so that was what they seemed to be after: his collaboration. And if they thought he still couldn't remember, they had to be hoping that he would swallow their story, that he'd believe he was a terrorist so that he'd accept their deal. So insisting on a confession, asking him about his accomplices – all those things only served to make the scenario more plausible.

The only flaw in their plan was that Charlie wasn't as clueless as they thought. He remembered a lot by now, enough to see through their game. Maybe that was why he was able to summon up enough courage to still oppose his adversaries. "I didn't plan any attacks. I'm not a criminal, like you are. You kidnapped me."

Rosenthal had to be a talented actor. In any event his performance of disbelief and derision against an alleged suspect was perfect. "Oh my! Now you're twisting the facts, Professor, don't you think? You're not seriously suggesting that the US government would commit crimes? You know that all we're doing is on behalf of the government. You're the criminal here."

By and by, Charlie was growing tired of the repetitions. On the other hand, he realized that this was part of their goal; they were trying to wear him down him with their never-changing questions, with their persistence, with their disbelief. He wouldn't let that happen, though.

"I'm innocent," he repeated, his voice firm.

Rosenthal's features became cooler and Charlie couldn't tell anymore whether or not he was acting. "Are you?" He took the uppermost file from the little stack next to him, opened it and slapped the pictures in front of Charlie.

"Do you see that? This is your doing! Those are your attacks! Go on, look at it! Look at it! Look at what you've done!"

Charlie wanted to avert his eyes, but found that he couldn't. Those pictures were mesmerizing him in a gruesomely tragic way although he wanted so much to close his eyes from them. He had to continue staring at them though, at those people, their dead bodies in the middle of the street, inhumanely, as though they were garbage whose removal was a burdensome nuisance. One of the women was holding a little child in her arms, a girl apparently. Both their faces were disfigured though, and the lower part of the girl's body was missing. The bomb had torn her apart.

Charlie swallowed and his voice had dissipated into an unsteady whisper. "That wasn't me. I'm innocent." He knew that wasn't true. He wasn't innocent. He was responsible for this. He hadn't known it, but his work had served to help those CIA terrorists, they'd placed the bomb according to his calculations. If he hadn't accepted this assignment, all those people in this picture would still be alive today.

"You're lying. It was you who made that bomb, or you had accomplices for that. At any rate you're involved in this. Tell us what you know!"

Charlie's voice became more desperate and increased in volume. "Nothing! I don't know anything!"

"Don't lie to us!" The other man was shouting too. "Look at those pictures! Look at those people! You killed them! You're still trying to tell me you're not a terrorist?"

Charlie didn't answer. His heart was beating painfully in his chest and yet he knew he wasn't what they were accusing him of, he knew very well how much blame was pressing on his shoulders, but he also knew how much blame was pressing on theirs. But those men could never know that he knew, they could never know that he remembered what they did last fall, for then they'd know that he'd be a risk to them. He could identify them, he could reveal their crimes, he could testify against them. No, they could never know he could identi-

But they _knew_ he could identify them! They were still holding him against his will, they'd kidnapped him, they were committing a criminal offence! How could they hope to get away with that? Unless… unless they were planning to keep him from blabbing. Forever.

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Don tried to remain calm, at least on the outside, but that was anything but easy. He was already sorry for having snapped at Megan like that, but he just felt that they couldn't lose sight of their goal, they had to remain focused on Charlie, they couldn't let it happen that he vanished from their sight forever…

Even while he'd been trying to fall asleep last night, he hadn't been able to stop wondering how Charlie might be doing. It was almost certain that he was being held somewhere against his will. But how were they treating him? Were they hurting him? Or did they just leave him alone? Did he know what they were planning to do to him or did he have to live in uncertainty? What _were_ they planning to do to him? Were they putting pressure on him, for whatever reason? And if so, pressure of what kind? A physical or a psychological one? And which would be worse? Damn, what were they doing to him…

Don had been forced to take a sleeping pill in order to give his worn out brain at least some hours of rest. However, he'd hardly been awake when those tormenting questions had started anew. He just couldn't block them out. As much as he was racking his brains over how to find Charlie, all kinds of horror scenarios were incessantly wandering around like ghosts in his head. Accordingly, he was very ill-tempered, permanently, and had some difficulties with behaving himself in the company of others.

And every now and then, very softly, but not to be ignored and not to be forgotten, very stealthily one question arose his attention again and again, _What if we can't find him?_ And then there was also the fear, that immense fear that he couldn't ban that they might make a mistake, a mistake which could lead to fatal consequences for his little brother…

"Don?"

The voice was soft and soft was the hand on Don's shoulder. Even softer than Megan's. Don looked up and was relieved when he saw not his colleague – no matter how much he liked and appreciated her – but Robin. He closed his eyes and sighed quietly, letting himself fall for just a moment. It was good that Robin was here.

"So?" she asked softly. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm not," Don whispered. Robin was the only person in the entire world to whom he'd ever admit that so openly.

She ran her fingers through his hair and he concentrated on the feeling, his eyes still closed. "Did you find anything?"

Don knew how well she knew how closely her two questions were connected. She'd known last fall and she knew now. G-d, this whole situation was so horribly similar to last fall…

"Maybe," he said vaguely. He didn't want to build up too much hope, not in others and not within himself because he was too afraid to see it crumble to dust in an instant. At the same time, he wanted, he _needed_ to clutch at each and every straw they could find.

"You have any idea where he might be?"

Don hesitated. His idea was vague and he didn't have any proof or even clues leading in that direction. Still, he was hoping so much to be on the right track that he just couldn't keep it a secret in front of Robin any longer. "I think he might be in Nebraska. We're pretty sure he was kidnapped by the same people that were behind everything last time, and last time he turned up in Nebraska, so why shouldn't he be there now as well?"

Robin frowned, her face full of compassion, which took the harshness out of her words. "You realize that this is a pretty long shot? If Charlie has been held captive last fall and if whoever did that tried to get rid of him, they could have abandoned him anywhere, and they probably wouldn't have abandoned him anywhere near the place where he'd been working for them. And didn't you say Charlie's assignment was somewhere abroad?"

"That's what we thought then, but there's no proof for that. Besides, we don't know if Charlie's kidnappers decided to let him go. Since everything points to them having him kidnapped again, that actually seems pretty unlikely. And if Charlie escaped, it's highly likely that he wound up near the place where he'd been held captive before."

Robin still wasn't convinced. She didn't want to demoralize Don, but he still had to remain objective. "You're making a lot of assumptions," was therefore all she said, and she hoped that Don would take her words calmly.

He did her the favor. "I know. But it's a possibility. And I'm going to check each and every possibility until we find him."

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By now, Charlie thought he could detect a pattern: one or two hours of interrogation, usually conducted by Rosenthal, then back to his cell for half a day or a whole day, then back to the interrogation, then back to the cell… On the one hand, this continuity gave him some security, but on the other hand, this rhythm was making his life (Charlie decided to give that word a very broad meaning) incredibly dreary. Besides, there was nobody he could talk to. Or at least nobody he could talk about anything else other than their accusations and his assertions of innocence.

He was longing so much for all the people those men had separated him from that it hurt. It felt much longer than only a couple of days that he'd been separated from them, and in a way, that made sense, for the last time they'd truly been together, the last time they'd all enjoyed this luxury of normalcy, had been several months ago, before he'd departed for his assignment. The fact that he now remembered what he'd lost made his longing so much stronger. At the same time, the desire to see them again gave him a kind of hope that prevented him to drown in the depths of desperation. He was going to see them again. They were going to find him, he was sure of that. Sooner or later, all this would be over. And anyway, those CIA terrorists wouldn't hold him captive forever.

For a moment, Charlie couldn't breathe. He was right, they wouldn't hold him captive forever. Only for as long as they considered him an asset. Depending on what they were planning, this time frame could span several years, years in captivity, in a dark gray area moral-wise, true, but years spent alive and with a glimmer of hope to be found and rescued or even to be able to escape and rescue himself.

On the other hand, it was very well possible that they only needed him for their pseudo terrorist hunt. Since that seemed what they'd asked Charlie's help for in the first place and since his assignment had been restricted to last only a couple of weeks, the time span they would need him for could be scarily short. Besides, he was a risk to their plans, they had to be trying to get everything done even faster now so they could get rid of him all the sooner.

Especially… especially if he continued demurring at collaborating. For this way, all he presented was a risk to their plans and no longer an asset they might have use for. If sooner or later they decided that trying to win him round was too laborious a task, they would most likely kill him.

Charlie shuddered. He had no doubt that his considerations were correct, but what did that mean for him? What should he do? Even if continuing to refuse to collaborate everything but increased his chances of survival, he still couldn't possibly accept their offer, right? And there was no way he could confess being a criminal when he knew he wasn't, for that would make all the remainder of hope vanish that he still harbored.

He breathed shakily. He just had to continue hoping. He just had to hope that Don would find him. As soon as possible.


	31. Broken Straws

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1

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31\. Broken Straws

"Don! What's the matter?"

Alan was confused, almost distraught. His eldest had just come home in the middle of the day and, after a quick "Hey, Dad", had disappeared into his bedroom. That was all he'd said. No explanation, no information. For Alan, this kind of uncertainty was worse than anything else.

"What's going on, Don? Did you find something? Do you know anything?"

"No," came the curt reply as Don was hurrying through the house, picking up a hodge-podge of items on his way. "We didn't find anything, at all," he added in the same tone, one which revealed his bitterness only too well.

His reply didn't really clear things up for Alan, it just made him feel more hopeless. And quite tense, accordingly. "So what are you doing here?"

Don's voice was coming from the bathroom now. "Packing. I'm going to that clinic, in Nebraska."

"You're going to Nebraska? When?"

This time, the voice resounded from his bedroom. "In an hour."

Alright, that was something Alan hadn't expected. And his fatherly instincts were telling him that with events that came unexpected, one should be doubly careful. At the same time though, he could feel some of his hope return. "Do you think that Charlie's there?"

The answer didn't come at once. Instead of it, Don himself came into the living room few seconds later, a duffle bag over his shoulder. When he stood before his father, he put it down, as though he was already carrying enough burdens. Alan could hardly bear the tension and waited impatiently for his son to answer until he finally did. "I don't know," Don said, but strangely enough, that didn't make Alan's hope decrease this time. Maybe because he knew what his son was about to add, "But I hope so."

Alan swallowed, still not sure if he could feel relieved now or not. He didn't know how to ask further questions and so he was glad that this time, he hadn't worm the information out of his eldest for a change, but that Don freely gave it instead. "We assume that Charlie might have been watched at that clinic. We sent a team of forensics there, but they haven't found anything, so now we're going to look for ourselves."

Alan was a little confused. "Do you really think you're going to find something there if they haven't?"

Don's answer came with painful pithiness, "It's the best lead we've got."

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Amita and Larry had been able to compile a composite sketch, and just as the team had expected when they'd seen the grainy result, they hadn't been able to find any matching persons in their databases. They were still trying to improve the image and were always hoping that the APB they'd put out would give them some results, but both those leads could take some time and as long as they were waiting for something to pop up there, Don wasn't willing to just sit around doing nothing.

He knew that his team didn't completely agree with his decision. On the other hand, they couldn't deny that they currently had no other lead than the clinic and maybe the truck driver, both of which led them to Nebraska. Besides, he was their boss. They had to defer to him whether they wanted to or not.

He knew that it was possible that they would waste their time at that clinic, that they'd lose time in their search, time that Charlie might not have. He forbade himself to think like that though. He didn't want to lose that hope, hope that they might finally make a step in the right direction, that they might finally get a little closer to Charlie. And it was rational, right? Going to the clinic, they could talk to the staff, see if there was anything suspicious going on, and it would be so much easier to get access to the files of the clinic's personnel, and it would be so much faster than trying to get through the red tape from some hundreds of miles away. And maybe they would find some indication that Charlie had actually been watched there. And maybe that way, they would find some names, _something_ to lead them to the people who'd kidnapped him.

Don's heart was beating wildly as he fervently tried to hold out hope.

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Charlie jumped when he was awakened by loud noises at his cell door. He squinted. Was it time already for the interrogation? He could hardly imagine. It seemed to him as though he'd just dozed off a couple of minutes ago, and that was exactly how he felt. But maybe he'd lost his sense of time again?

"Get up! Turn around, hands behind your head!"

Charlie hardly managed to stand upon his feet, he was just so weary. But the strident voice of the man at his cell door was intimidating enough to make him try his best to follow his order.

"Come on, get going!"

Charlie stumbled as they pulled him with them. He was so tired... He'd thought they would leave him alone for a while, he'd expected to have a couple of hours of relative rest.

Again, he was led into the interrogation room, again there was Rosenthal sitting in front of him, again appraising, again with that cold smile. This time, however, there was no food on the table and he thought he could see a new nuance in Rosenthal's features, a new attribute to their malice.

 _They're doing this on purpose!_ it suddenly occurred to him, and with a jolt, he was awake, alarmed even. He hadn't imagined that this time the period between his interrogations had been shorter, it actually was, the terrorists had changed their rhythm, and Charlie had a good idea why they might have done that. They had to realize that such a disruption of their routine would wear their captive out, that it would confuse him, unnerve him, throw him off balance. They had to be hoping to finally be able to change his mind that way.

 _Not on my watch_ , Charlie set his mind on it while at the same time he was trying not to think about how ambitious his goal was. He didn't even know what they were planning to do to him, what else they might think of to convince him. Why should he think that he'd be able to resist their mind games? Especially when he considered that everything pointed towards the theory that their mind games had already broken him once…

 _Charlie was running. It was a kneejerk reaction, completely irrational and completely useless. He couldn't have taken it any longer though. He was beyond his breaking point._

 _The image of his dead brother was still floating in front of his inner eye and made tears come to his eyes which impaired his vision dangerously. He had to go on though, Don would have wanted him to go on, he had to escape, away from this prison, away from his pursuers, away from the image…_

 _Behind him, he could hear the heavy steps of his opponents. He knew it was futile, knew that he could never get out of here, but he'd just had to try._

' _Come on, don't stop. Don't give in.'_

 _The nausea increased to an almost unbearable level as he wondered where those words had come from, from himself or from his big brother. Don… It just couldn't be, Don couldn't be dead, he had to be alive, he had to…_

 _Charlie fell on his knees and toppled over. He couldn't go on. He just couldn't. He had no strength left. He'd tried to tell himself that Don would have wanted him to go on, to try everything to escape, to go on fighting and never give in. But Don was gone and Charlie's attempt was doomed to failure, so where was the sense in it all?_

 _His pursuers almost fell over him. He didn't put up any resistance. All he could think about was Don, what they'd done to him, that they'd killed him, that they'd…_

 _Charlie was crying, but he hardly took any notice of that. He just wanted it to stop, he wanted everything to stop, he just wanted them to leave him alone forever._

 _They were talking to him, but their words didn't really reach him, they only reached his subconscious. "I can't believe how stupid you are. And they say you're clever. What were you trying to accomplish by that, huh? Did you really think you could get away from us?" There was a sneering laugh. "Even if you could get out of here, we'd have you back in a matter of minutes, or did you forget about our little safety measure? And they call you a genius!"_

 _The man had taken Charlie's wrist into a painfully firm grip and held it in front of his captive's tear-filled eyes. Even though his vision was blurry, Charlie could discern an almost healed wound, a cut in his skin, executed with surgical precision. Yes, they had cut open his wrist, against his will. They had sedated him for the procedure, but when he'd woken up, bound to the rests of an uncomfortable chair, he'd had no trouble figuring out what had happened, especially since they'd threatened him they'd do that: a microchip. They'd implanted him a microchip. So even if he had been able to fight his way through their barriers and get out of here, they still would have been able to locate him._

 _So by now, they had taken everything from him. They had bereaved him of his freedom, his dignity, his brother and now even of his hope. With their unscrupulous brutality, they'd broken the last straws he'd been clutching at and left him without anything. And now, he didn't have any strength left. Their mind games had built up enough desperation within him to dare this futile attempt to escape, but he'd never nurtured any hope of success. They had finally managed to demoralize him completely. And no matter how hard he thought about it, it just became harder and harder to find a reason to stay alive._

Charlie shuddered. He was cold. The cold came from inside of him and for a moment, he had the absurd feeling that the metal chip in his wrist was the source of this icy sensation. Maybe it was. He remembered now, during his captivity last fall, they'd implanted him that microchip, which at bottom had been completely useless since they hadn't let him go anywhere anyway. To be precise, they'd kept him under such a tight watch that he hadn't even been able to try and remove the device. And eventually, he hadn't cared about that anymore. He hadn't cared about anything anymore. Don had been gone, and he'd had no hope to ever get out of here. Collaborating with them had been out of the question, so there hadn't been anything to fill his life. And so, his will to live, precariously close to its zero point to begin with, had decreased further and further until nothing had remained. He'd stopped eating, he'd stopped drinking, he'd stopped living. And that must have been his ticket to freedom.

They must have gotten cold feet. Their prisoner, once a promising resource, had been dangerously close to death and they had had to act fast. They had gotten rid of him, but as it became clear now, they'd kept a watchful eye on him. On their resource. On their Achilles heel. Releasing him last fall had never been a way of granting him freedom, and neither had it been an attempt to kill him or let him be killed by exposure. It had merely been a break, an opportunity for him to recover from what they'd done to him, but only so they could get him back when time had come to use him again.

Now, that time had come and they could use him again, or so they thought. In any event, they'd eliminated the risk that he presented for their plans by keeping him in isolation, by preventing him from talking to anybody about what he might know. He was their prisoner again, and he was sick of it. He was sick of fighting, of affirming his innocence, he was sick of the interrogations, he was sick of being alone. He just wanted all this to stop. He was just so tired…

"Who are your accomplices?"

"I don't have any," Charlie mumbled, his thoughts still revolving more around his memories than around the just as unpleasant present.

"Are you saying you committed the attacks on your own?"

"Yeah… No, I…" Charlie was confused. He couldn't concentrate anymore. He had a head-ache. And he wanted to sleep, he was so tired… "I didn't commit any attacks. I'm innocent."

When would they stop? When would they finally leave him alone?

Charlie was sick when he realized that he already knew the answer: never.

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Don's chest was tight and his mouth was only a thin line when he came back from under the bed and stood. The forensics team that had been in here before them had been right, there wasn't anything to be found here, no bugs, no hidden cameras, nothing. Not even a sign that Charlie had ever been here. The room had been thoroughly cleaned, even though it hadn't been in use since Charlie's release.

They had searched Charlie's room twice now (even three times if one included the forensics team's efforts) and nothing was going to change about the fact that there wasn't anything in here. Before their second search of the room, they'd taken a closer look at the communal rooms, even at the terrace and other public places the clinic held. They hadn't found anything.

"I want to talk to the cleaning personnel," Don said, but his voice, which was so used to giving orders, was trembling. What if this was another dead end? If they were wasting their time here?

"I'll have take a look at the records to know who was working here in which rooms and at what times," the head of the clinic replied. She was a resolute woman in her fifties, brisk, but not rude. She was willing to cooperate with the FBI, to help the bureau in their investigation of the disappearance of her former patient, even though she couldn't imagine that they would find anything that would help them here.

The cleaning lady in question was working in another part of the building right now, but her answer to all the team's questions whether she'd noticed anything out of the ordinary when cleaning Charlie's room was 'no'. Another dead end. Don however wasn't willing to give up. Somehow, Charlie's kidnappers must have known that he'd left the clinic and returned home, otherwise the timing would be just too coincidental. At least those assumptions held if they were right in assuming that Charlie's abduction was connected to his assignment last fall. But they just couldn't afford to be wrong in this regard, they just couldn't afford…

"We're going to need the personnel files of your staff now, Mrs. Fletcher."

With that, they had reached exactly the point at which the head of the clinic was no longer willing to cooperate. "For what purpose?" she asked coolly.

"We have a strong suspicion that the victim of the abduction has been watched here, and if that wasn't accomplished by technology, it must have been accomplished by one of your staff."

"That's what you're assuming."

"Please, Mrs. Fletcher," Megan joined the discussion. She was well aware that with the little evidence they had, it might be difficult to get a warrant, but she was equally well aware that Don wasn't going to give in. And as hard as it was to make that acknowledgement, she too realized that they didn't have much more to go on than this clinic. "We're going to treat those files confidentially. If your people aren't connected to this case, they don't have anything to fear."

Mrs. Fletcher still didn't seem convinced. "That's what you're telling me today," she objected. "And by next week, everyone in an official position will be able to get access to those files without much ado." She hesitated and seemed to reach a decision. "Show me a warrant and I won't hesitate to give you those files."

"There's one problem with that, Mrs. Fletcher," Colby spoke up. "By the time we get a warrant, it might be too late. Charlie has been declared missing five days ago. Every minute could save his life."

Mrs. Fletcher was obviously warring with herself. True, she didn't have much contact with her patients, but she did know those living with them permanently, at least by name. And even though there was no such thing as a routine case, Michael's case had been far from normal. First those mysterious circumstances under which he'd come to them, then the mysterious circumstances how he'd left them again… And now he was missing. That was difficult to imagine. But as the head of the clinic where Michael had been a patient shortly before his disappearance, didn't she have a certain responsibility for him? And then, maybe someone from her staff did indeed know something about the matter. She was far from implicitly trusting each and every one of them, she just knew most of them too little to do that. There were always people who were working here only for a couple of weeks, temporary employees – how could she be sure that none of them had anything to do with that young man's disappearance?

She swallowed. "Alright. But you'll have to treat those files confidentially!"

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Charlie was hanging his head. All he wanted to do was sleep, preferably in his own bed, but he would also be content with the thin mattress in his cell. Or with the floor. What mattered was that he could escape to sleep and loneliness. At this moment, even his nightmares seemed better to him than this. From his nightmares, he could at least wake up.

Here, however, he couldn't even fall asleep. He didn't know how long they were already keeping him awake, but it couldn't have been more than three or four days, even though it seemed like ages to him. The interrogators were changing, but the questions they asked him remained the same, always the same and never changing… _Do you confess to being a terrorist? How many attacks have you committed? Who are your accomplices? Give us their names! What are the names…_

Charlie had just dozed off when a bang jerked him awake again. He lifted his head slightly and from under heavy eyelids, he could blurrily distinguish a flat hand on the table, but he didn't even know to whom it belonged or which CIA terrorist's turn it was to lead the interrogation this time.

"Who are your accomplices? Answer us!"

"I don't know," Charlie murmured weakly. He was so tired, so immensely tired…

"Don't lie to us!"

Charlie flinched, but his eyelids remained closed, apart from a tiny slit. They were so heavy and he was just so tired…

"Give us their names!"

"I don't know anything…"

The tears had come, against his will, pressing against his eyes from behind and then past them until they were running down his cheeks. He didn't want to cry, not really, but he was just so tired…

"Their names!"

The tears were coming more quickly now. But then, why should he try to keep them from spilling? He wouldn't succeed anyway. He was so tired…

"Do we have to hurt you first, Professor? Is it that what you want? Do you want us to inflict pain on you?"

"I don't know anything…"

So what if they inflicted pain on him. So what if they did to him whatever they wanted. All he wanted to do was sleep, just sleep, he needed calm and peace…

"We can destroy you if you don't help us."

So what if they did, they could do to him whatever they wanted. It wasn't important. Nothing was important. He didn't care about anything anymore. All he wanted to do was sleep.

As if he was standing outside his own body, he could feel his head sink down on his chest. At the same time, he could feel the fear to be jerked awake any moment now by another loud noise or to be pulled hard on his feet or to be shouted at. But nothing happened and he became a bit calmer. He was tired, so tired…

More in his unconscious than his conscious mind, he could hear a soft click, but he didn't pay attention to it. And then there was the voice, a voice that, compared to everything that had happened so far, was so soft that Charlie was almost certain that he'd already slipped into the realm of dreams.

"Alright, Professor. You seem to be tired, very tired. We'd like very much to let you sleep now. But we want to sleep in peace as well. And we can only do that if you assure us of your willingness to collaborate with us."

Charlie was hardly listening to the words, only to that soft sound of the voice. He didn't care about anything else.

"I'd like you to answer my question now. It's a very easy question, but keep in mind that your answer to it is binding. The question is this: are you going to do the calculations that we're asking you to do for us? If you consent to doing that, just say 'yes'. It's very easy, you only have to say 'yes'."

Charlie didn't really know what he was doing, didn't know what the voice had said, he just wanted to sleep, to give everyone whatever they wanted so that they would leave him alone and let him sleep, and he had a certain feeling about what would make that happen, he didn't really know why, he just felt like it was the thing he needed to say now.

"Yes."


	32. Choices

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1  
 **A/N:** We're about halfway through now, so congratulations and a big thank-you to everyone who got this far! I hope you have enough energy left for the rest of the ride :)

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32\. Choices

It took a while until Charlie was awake enough to realize that they'd come back into his cell and were shouting orders at him. He sat up as quickly as he could, but not quickly enough to satisfy his opponents.

"Come on, hurry up!"

Charlie stood, let himself be pulled upwards, let them pull him outside, let them do everything they wanted to him. He was tired, but he could at least keep his eyes open today. It wasn't as bad as it had been… had it been yesterday? He didn't know, he'd lost any form of timely orientation. Judging from how he felt, he could have slept an hour just as easily as a week. Fact was that his brain was moderately active again, but his body was still entirely exhausted. When he sat down on his usual chair, he could have fallen asleep almost instantly, if only it hadn't been for Rosenthal.

"Good morning, Professor. I'm sure you don't mind if we get to work immediately, for I'd say we lost enough time already. Let us only sort out our business conditions first."

By and by, Charlie became aware that he had no idea what Rosenthal was talking about, but he decided to just let him talk for the time being.

"Your assignment will be considered completed when we decide that it is. Until we do that, you are going to work under our supervision as efficiently and well as you can at the projects we give you. You are going to have contact to the outside world only when we grant you that. You are not going to get paid, but will be provided with board and lodging free of charge. In return for your work, the government consents to dropping all the charges against you concerning terrorist activities."

Even if Charlie had been more awake, he would have probably been rendered speechless. Could his kidnappers really be that brazen? After all his rejections, could they actually hope to make him cooperate by such a primitive surprise attack?

"Forget it."

Only the fracture of a second later, it occurred to Charlie that he should probably converse in a more polite tone with the people whose hands he'd fallen into, but the words had already left his mouth. He didn't have to wait long for a reaction, Rosenthal's eye-brows narrowed.

"What are you trying to say, Dr. Eppes?"

"That I'm not going to collaborate with you. I already told you that." _Countless times_ , he silently added with a hint of desperation.

Rosenthal shook his head. His face was stony and Charlie felt again the shudders running down his spine. "You've given us your word, Professor. You've promised the government your assistance."

Charlie was certain that this was one of their lies again to make him insecure and he wasn't about to grant them the triumph of knowing that they were getting to him. Or at least he would have liked not to grant them that. "That's not true."

"Stop lying, Professor," Rosenthal reprimanded him and it sounded so earnest and authentic that Charlie didn't dare to contradict him again.

His face still stony, Rosenthal extended his hand towards the recording device that was sitting on the table between them and pushed a button. There was a clicking sound that aroused Charlie's attention, he felt as if he had heard that sound before.

" _Alright, Professor. You seem to be tired, very tired_ ," the voice of one of the men that used to take him out of his cell came from the speakers _. "We'd like very much to let you sleep now. But we want to sleep in peace as well. And we can only do that if you assure us of your willingness to collaborate with us. I'd like you to answer my question now. It's a very easy question, but keep in mind that your answer to it is binding. The question is this: are you going to do the calculations that we ask you to do for us? If you consent to doing that, just say 'yes'. It's very easy, you only have to say 'yes'._ "

The words were followed by some seconds of silence until Charlie heard his own voice, _"Yes."_

He was breathing shallowly. He'd had a feeling what had been about to come, which answer, but it had been an indistinct feeling, he'd thought he'd only dreamt that, that it hadn't been real. But he'd said it. He himself, he'd actually said it, he had accepted their offer. He hardly remembered the conversation, it still seemed so much more like a dream, he'd been so tired, but he knew that this conversation had actually taken place, that it had been real.

"This is a binding contract, Professor. You promised to offer us your assistance. You have to adhere to this contract, otherwise you'll be liable to prosecution. And I don't think you can afford another crime on your plate."

Charlie was hot. He had to get out of here. He had to think. He had to get a clear head.

"Well, Professor? I guess this settles it. You accepted the assignment, so let's get you set up so you can get to work."

With that, Rosenthal stood. Charlie remained seated, but only until Rosenthal's men roughly grabbed his upper arms and pulled him to his feet and out of the room.

For a moment, Charlie thought they were leading him back to his cell, but the three men stopped in front of a different door and opened it.

"This, Professor, is your new working space. I'll be sending you one of our technicians immediately so he can acquaint you with everything. And please, Professor, follow my advice: don't try anything hinky. It wouldn't be of any use to you."

Charlie thought that it was about time to express his reluctance a bit more clearly than he'd been doing so far. "I'm not going to work for you."

"You want to break your contract?"

Charlie didn't answer at once. His heart was beating rapidly. If he said 'yes' now, if he broke the documented oral contract, he would indeed be guilty of an offence. Then those terrorists would indeed have a hold over him.

On the other hand, he'd already fallen into their hands long ago. And if he actually started working for them again, the crimes he was about to commit wouldn't remain restricted to breaking contracts.

"Yes, that's exactly what I want," Charlie therefore said, but couldn't ban the slight tremble from his voice. He was everything but comfortable with his new role. True, he was acting according to his moral standards, but unfortunately completely contrary to his instinct for self preservation. "I won't collaborate with you." By now, he'd said that so often that he was tempted to add an 'end of discussion', but at the last moment it occurred to him that it was probably wiser not to show his opponents the hopelessness of their plans so openly.

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While David and Colby were checking the files for irregularities and every now and then tried to gather information about some of the employees' bank accounts, Don and Megan interviewed the staff. _Did you notice something out of the ordinary during the past six months, maybe someone who behaved in a suspicious manner? Did one of your colleagues show unusual interest in a specific patient?_ Most of the times, their answers were of no use. True, some of the orderlies gave them an indication or two, but when they checked those leads, they always led into a dead end.

They spent most part of the weekend on interviewing the staff without finding anything of significance. They'd started with the ones who were currently working and began only Sunday afternoon to interview the ones that were still missing at their respective homes.

Saturday evening, it had occurred to Colby that someone from the outside might have hacked into the clinic's data processing system. They checked the possibility thoroughly, but it was an internal system, no computer of the network was connected to the internet or another external network and also apart from that, they didn't find any indication that an unauthorized person might have accessed the patients' data or other information on their server.

It had been Megan who had had the idea of taking a closer look at those persons that had been working at the clinic exactly during the time that Charlie had been a patient there. They'd indeed found someone, an orderly called Jonathan Taylor, who had started there briefly after Charlie's admission and who had just quit his job, effective the end of the month, a short time frame with suspicious starting and end dates. However, when they'd checked him out, it had become apparent why: his wife had found a new, well-paid job in the area and they'd moved here the previous September. Her husband however had found a new job only starting May and until then had been working at the clinic temporarily. Just to be sure, they made some further inquiries, but they couldn't find anything suspicious. Taylor seemed to have no criminal ties whatsoever and neither any ties to Charlie's disappearance. He was another dead end.

By now, it was Monday and they still hadn't found anything. Their hope had steadily decreased, but it hadn't reached zero yet. They still hadn't checked everybody out, so it was still possible that they would find someone who could give them some indications, and there were still potential suspects.

Like, for example, Doris Conrad. She was in her late twenties, had been working at the clinic for eight years already and made a rather unremarkable impression on the FBI agents, maybe safe for the fact that she seemed to be a little nervous. It was shortly after five p.m., she had just ended her shift and agreed to stay a little bit longer in order to respond to the questions of the FBI agents from California.

"Mrs. Conrad," Megan began, "do you remember a patient suffering from amnesia called Michael who has been staying here until two weeks ago?"

 _Woah_ , Don thought and for the first time in hours he was back to full concentration. He was certain that Doris Conrad had just widened her eyes. However, Don tried not to show his interest in her reaction too much. If she knew something or if she was hiding something, he wanted to avoid putting her off.

After some very telling hesitation she answered, "Yes."

Megan too hadn't missed the woman's unnatural nervousness, but she too didn't let that show. "Have you heard that this patient has disappeared a week ago today?"

The eyes widened a bit further and the two agents could see the woman swallow. "No."

"Do you know anything about that?" Don asked her, a bit forcefully.

Megan shot him a brief glance. She could understand Don's impatience, but if he started to scare their witness away, that wouldn't help them either.

"I… No, not directly."

You could tell from her appearance that she would have liked to be anywhere else in this moment. Megan continued with a tone that she hoped would calm the woman down a bit. "And indirectly, Mrs. Conrad? Please understand that your statement could be of extreme importance to us. We assume that… _Michael_ has been kidnapped. If you know anything at all that could help us find him, no matter how insignificant it may seem to you, you have to tell us that. We can try to keep your name out of this if you want that, but you have to talk to us. Has maybe one of your colleagues shown an unusual interest in Michael?"

Mrs. Conrad was silent. For a long time. Megan could see that Don was about to push her further and she too had to keep a hold of herself so that she didn't intimidate this woman with further questions. They both knew only too well that they had to remain patient now, no matter how difficult it was.

"Yes," the nurse finally said. "A friend of mine. Anna Silversteen."

Don had to contain himself immensely not to jump up from his chair at once to go find that Anna Silversteen and bluntly ask her what she had done to Charlie. Instead he asked, "Where can we find her? And in what way did she show interest in him?"

Again, the woman hesitated, but again, her pity for the kidnapping victim, for her former patient, seemed to be getting the upper hand. "She's been asking about him," she replied. "Anna stopped working here two months ago and since then she called me every week, and every time she asked how he was doing. And she always wanted me to keep her posted on his progress, so two weeks ago I called her to tell her that he'd returned back home. I haven't heard a word from her since then."

Don's heart was beating so fast that he could hardly stand it. This was a lead, a real and proper lead! "Do you know why she showed that kind of interest?"

"Not really. I asked her of course, but she always changed the topic. But I think it has something to do with money. She's been wanting to leave here for some time now and since Michael had been brought to us, she'd been talking about moving away soon because she finally had the money to do that. But she never told me where that money came from."

"Do you have her address?"

"Yes, she gave it to me, along with her phone number. She's living in Jackson, Mississippi now, but I don't know the exact address, I'd have to look that up."

Don nodded and hardly managed to hide his agitation. This Anna Silversteen had something to do with Charlie's disappearance, that was so obvious…

"We're going to check the information you gave us, Mrs. Conrad," he said. "As long as we do that, I'm afraid we'll have to detain you."

Mrs. Conrad's nervousness instantly turned into dismay. "You what?!"

"We'll have to make sure that you can't warn your friend before we've been able to talk to her. Please understand that. You'll be reimbursed for any financial losses that may arise from that."

"But…"

Megan felt sorry for her, but she knew that Don wouldn't change his mind. There was no way he would risk losing such a promising lead. "It would really be better for you, Mrs. Conrad, if you came with us voluntarily. Tomorrow at this time, this is probably all going to be over for you."

Doris Conrad still seemed quite upset, but Megan could see in her eyes that she was about to comply.

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Rosenthal took the opportunity when his technician passed the open door to his 'office'. "Cedric, wait!"

Cedric Patter reversed his steps and looked in from the doorstep. "What's up?"

"Come on in. Close the door." Patter obeyed. "Take a seat." Rosenthal waited until Patter was sitting before he continued, "How are things with Wellman?"

Cedric grimaced. "I have no use for him," he informed him bluntly. "I mean, I don't have that much to do as it is, but even if I had I wouldn't know what to do with him. I'm telling you, he was a lot more useful to us as a mole."

Rosenthal shook his head, his face grim. "He completely overreacted, that idiot."

The whole team – not just the five of them that had been staying in their first dugout – had been less than enthusiastic about Clifford Wellman's kneejerk reaction. The fact that he'd run away from his life just because they'd been forced to look for a new hiding place – no, that had really been exaggerated. Granted, he was working with the FBI, just like the professor's brother, but they hadn't even started investigating at the time Wellman had chosen to go into hiding, they hadn't known anything about this whole operation. So yes, Wellman's reaction had been completely exaggerated and unnecessary, and now, they lacked an informant with the FBI. So now, depending on how much they'd be keeping the investigation under wraps – because for Rosenthal it was as clear as daylight that Eppes' brother and therefore the FBI would be investigating this case – it could become rather challenging to get to the information they needed in order not to get busted. Knowing what their opponent knew was always a clear advantage that they now lacked. On the other hand, the risk the FBI's investigation presented to them was vanishingly small. There was nothing that could lead the FBI to them, and down here, nobody would ever find them anyway.

"So what are we gonna do about the professor?" Patter wanted to know. "Is he talking?"

Rosenthal's features became even darker. "Not yet. But we're going to turn him around soon."

His words were more optimistic than he was. The professor hadn't been talking for a full week now. Rosenthal was strongly tempted to start using physical force, but at bottom, he was opposed to such methods. He wasn't a hatchet man. And who could tell if that would actually work with the professor? Because technically, he gave the impression that one could pretty much wear him out by psychological means.

But also in this regard, they had to be careful, they couldn't let him go nuts again. This whole thing was a balancing act, maybe that was what made their progress so slow.

"We'll have to put pressure on him somehow," Rosenthal muttered, more to himself than to the technician. "We have to find out about his weak spots."

Cedric was silent for a moment. He wasn't dismissed yet though and thus Rosenthal was still expecting him to tax his brain. Indeed, he was successful. "We've observed him almost constantly, haven't we? So shouldn't there be something among that all that tells us something about his weak spots?"

Rosenthal nodded slowly. "That might work… Do we still have the recordings from his phone conversations when he was working for us?"

"Sure." Cedric Patter seldom threw something away. Sometimes it paid off to hang onto that stuff, like it did here.

"Alright. Then see if you can find anything. Relationships to other people, his past… Just go through everything and tell me when you got something."

Patter nodded and left.

Rosenthal leaned back in his office chair and looked thoughtfully at his phone as though it enabled him to look into the past. They should really be glad that they'd thought of recording the professor's phone calls last September, but they'd known then that such methods were often worthwhile in hindsight. True, it hurt his pride a bit that he hadn't been able to break the professor's will without such help ( _but only because we had to handle him with kid gloves,_ he defiantly justified himself), but chances were good that Cedric would present him with the magic cure even tonight or maybe tomorrow or the day after that, in any event soon. And then, they would finally have the professor exactly where they wanted him: with his back to the wall.


	33. Weak Spots

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1

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33\. Weak Spots

"You need it fast?"

Rosenthal looked up. Cedric Patter was standing in his doorframe and somehow, it felt good to see him. "You got something?"

"I think so. I haven't gone through the conversations that thoroughly yet, but I think his best friend would be an appropriate target."

He waited a bit to give Rosenthal time for an initial reaction. He got one, Rosenthal raised his eye-brows. "I'm listening?"

"His name is Lawrence Fleinhardt, the professor calls him Larry though. They're colleagues and it seems like they have known each other forever, I didn't really get that part yet. But the way they sound in those conversations, this Fleinhardt almost seems to be something like a parental figure for Eppes. Could be that I'm wrong, but in any case they know each other pretty well, have been friends for a long time and are pretty close to each other. Plus, it should be fairly easy to assault that Fleinhardt guy somewhere, in any case far easier than getting to the fed. Besides, we would probably strike a nerve where the professor least expects it."

Rosenthal nodded. That sounded promising. Patter was someone he could rely on, especially considering that he'd received his task only the day before. Now all that was missing was a plan. But Rosenthal already had a little idea…

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While Don and Megan had flown to Jackson to continue their investigation there and interview Anna Silversteen, David and Colby had stayed in Nebraska to continue checking out the personnel. They had considered it more prudent not to put all their eggs in one basket, but make further inquiries at the clinic in the hope that they would find further clues.

Don and Megan had landed a bit over an hour ago near Jackson and were now in an area at the outskirts of the city center. They were standing in front of an apartment building that seemed to be a bit older, but well maintained, and were looking at the nameplates. And indeed, there, in the fourth row from the bottom, the plate read 'A. Silversteen'.

When an elderly woman with a little dog left the house, they entered the building and made their way upstairs to their suspect's apartment.

Don and Megan only rang the bell when they had made sure that there was no other way out of the apartment than the front door, and since it was located on the fourth floor, Miss Silversteen hopefully wouldn't be crazy enough to jump out of the window. Besides, if she had a good explanation for everything and if she was going to collaborate with them in their search for Charlie, there was nothing she had to be afraid of.

The door was opened and Megan and Don held their badges out to the woman who might be in her early thirties. Don was a bit surprised to see two children behind her, a boy and a girl, both of them about ten years old – Doris Conrad hadn't mentioned that Anna Silversteen had any children – but he was even more surprised to see the countless cardboard boxes that were piled up everywhere. Had Miss Silversteen attempted to run from them?

"Miss Silversteen? FBI. We'd like to ask you some questions."

The woman opened her eyes wide. "FBI?" It took some moments until her mind seemed to have regained the ability to think straight. "Wait a sec." She turned around to her children. "Will you go to your room for a little while? These people from the police would like to talk to me alone."

"But Mom –" the boy objected.

"You're going to your room now!" the mother scolded with suspicious fierceness. Her children seemed intimidated enough to do what she said, but also upset enough to close the door behind them with a loud bang. When the scene was played out, the woman turned back towards the federal agents. "What can I do for you?"

"It's about the time you've been working at the Alexis of Edessa Clinic, Miss Silversteen."

The woman swallowed and nervously glanced back at the banged shut door. "I'm not Miss Silversteen," she said quietly, stepped out into the hallway with the two agents and closed the door behind her so that it was only opened a slit.

Don raised his eye-brows. He and Megan exchanged a glance. "Then who are you?" he asked.

"Judy Spark. This Anna Silversteen lived here before us."

"The nameplate downstairs says 'Silversteen'."

"I haven't changed it yet. We've only been living here since yesterday."

"May we see your ID?"

She wordlessly retreated into the hallway. Don and Megan kept watchful eyes on her and made sure that the door between them remained open.

"Here," the woman eventually said while holding out to the two agents her ID, which unmistakably showed her picture. And the name next to it was Judy Spark, not Anna Silversteen.

"Can you tell us where we may find Miss Silversteen?" Don asked. He still hadn't lost his mistrust. The ID could be a fake (even though it would have been a really good fake) and the woman's suspicious behavior still made him wonder.

Again, she glanced nervously back to the door behind her, the one that had to lead into the children's room, before she answered in a whisper, "She's dead. She's been murdered."

Don and Megan looked at each other. Megan was frowning. "How do you know that?"

"Mrs. Marroway next door told me about it. I didn't know a thing about this whole affair, otherwise we would have never moved in here! But it all happened so fast, we needed the place so desperately and then yesterday I heard by mere chance that there's a cheap apartment for rent here, just gotten free… I didn't even think about asking further questions! And now… it's just so… I'm just glad that the children don't know anything about it, it's hard enough for them as it is. But I'm telling you, I'll be so relieved when we're out of here again!"

"When was she murdered?" Don asked without responding to what the woman must have been waiting to get off her chest for a while now.

"Last Monday, the 23rd."

All the alarm bells started ringing in Don's head. That had been the day that Charlie had been kidnapped.

He had no time to connect the two events logically before Judy Spark continued, "The neighbors told me that she was stabbed to death, in the kitchen. I can hardly get anything down there. I mean, you can't see anything, but if you think about it, that right there at our kitchen table some scary guy just took a knife and killed her…"

She trailed off and so the three adults couldn't miss the sound that came from the children's room, as though something had fallen down there, apparently right behind the door. It only now occurred to them how uncommonly quiet the apartment was. In the room behind that door, there were two ten-year-olds, but until now, not the slightest sound had come from there.

Judy Spark widened her eyes, then turned around abruptly and tore the door open. She was faced with two pairs of eyes that held the same shock and dismay that could be seen in hers. On the floor, there were rolling two drinking glasses, and that made the case clear: the children had held the glasses against the door as an amplifier to eaves-drop on them.

Don could feel Megan's gaze on him and understood. They should go now. Mrs. Spark seemed to have told them everything she knew. Besides, she probably wasn't too focused on their witness interview anymore.

With their most viable lead dead, it didn't seem like much that they had found here. The only thing they seemed to have accomplished by this visit were the nightmares of two kids starring a faceless woman who was stabbed to death right at the table where they had just eaten their cereal this morning.

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Charlie was sick of it, just sick of it. He just wanted to get out of here, he wanted to go home, he wanted to see his friends and family again.

"Have you been planning further attacks?" This time, it wasn't Rosenthal sitting opposite from him, but two other men who in the last couple of days had interrogated him frequently, yet individually, one with blond and one with dark hair. The first one was around thirty, the other one around forty, and if Charlie wasn't mistaken, the latter was Agent Johnson, the same man that had initially recruited him for the assignment.

"No, I haven't," he replied, exhausted. "You know that I'm innocent. Let me go, please."

"You're a terrorist," the dark-haired one reminded him.

Charlie closed his eyes, realizing only now that he'd planned on not letting them know or even suspect that he knew that they knew he was innocent, but the whole game of who knew what just became too difficult to play in his current state of mind.

"I'm not," he said, trying to think back of what he'd told them when he'd still been able to think straight. "I know my rights. You can't be doing this to me."

"But we're doing it anyway."

Charlie's heart missed a beat and he looked up into the older one's face. He swallowed. He hadn't harbored any hope that his words might influence the CIA terrorists in any way, but it made icy shudders run down his spine that they were apparently giving up on trying to hide the illegality of their actions from him. Why were they doing that? Had they changed their plans? Had they finally decided on what they would do to him?

Were they going to kill him?

All of a sudden, Charlie's throat was as dry as the desert and he knew that this was extremely counter-productive, for he had to defend himself, now more than ever, he had to keep them from carrying this to the limit.

"They... they'll be looking for me."

The blond one let a scornful grin appear on his face. "Who'll be looking for you? You don't actually think that you've got friends out there, do you?"

Instinctively, Charlie thought of Larry, of Amita, his Dad, Don, the team. Yes, he did have friends out there, he was sure of that. He was also sure that they were already looking for him.

"I do. They'll be looking for me."

"Alright, so they'll be looking for you. But I'm just curious, you do know that such a thing could be quite harmful to your friends, don't you?" The blond one leaned slightly forward, lowering his voice in a way that made the icy shudders return. "Your brother already got a taste of that."

Charlie swallowed, and that way his collocutor couldn't miss how difficult a subject this was for his prisoner.

"And still you would like them to come for you?"

Charlie's breathing rhythm had increased. No, they wouldn't dare to do that, they wouldn't… or would they? He'd already thought once, _hoped_ once that they wouldn't go that far, that they wouldn't do anything to them, and he'd been so wrong. Don…

No. No, they shouldn't come looking for him, Don shouldn't come looking for him. No. He'd been wishing for that once already and he'd been hoping and he'd been telling that his opponents, and then Don had come and he had died and it had been Charlie's fault and there was no denying it was his fault…

" _Well then, Professor? How about now? Who's going to be looking for you now? One's dead already, how many loyal friends you still got up your sleeve?"_

 _Images of their faces appeared in front of Charlie's inner eye, of their dad, of Amita, of Larry, of Megan, Colby and David and of Don, again and again of Don…_

" _No one," he said, his voice hoarse. His vision was blurry, but the faces remained clear. Still, his answer was right, it had to be right, he didn't have anyone anymore who would be looking for him, he_ _couldn't_ _have someone else looking for him. It was already so difficult with Don, there just couldn't be anyone else they would kill because of him, he just had to be alone, it was the only way to keep them safe, there couldn't be anyone else left._

 _And Don couldn't have been there either. Don couldn't have come to get him out of here, he just couldn't. He couldn't have come, because there was no Don, he didn't know any Don, he didn't have a brother. He couldn't have a brother because if he had, this would be his fault and he just wouldn't be able deal with that. No, he didn't know Don. It wasn't his fault that his own brother had been killed because it wasn't true, he didn't have a brother, he didn't know Don, there was no Don, there never had been one._

 _As the tears were streaming down Charlie's face, he felt so cheap that it made nausea rise inside him. He told himself however that he wasn't betraying all those people that were dear to him as long as he himself knew the truth. He was only trying to keep them safe. He only had to pretend, he just had to deceive his opponents, pretend that he didn't have anybody anymore, to make sure they wouldn't go after anyone else. And, just a little bit, he'd have to deceive himself, so that he would remain authentic, so that they would believe his words, and so that Don's death wouldn't break him…_

 _No, deep inside, Charlie would always know that there were still people out there waiting for him, he was sure of that. He could never forget them._

He was trembling. That… _that_ had to be it! That had to be the reason why he hadn't been able to remember any of them! He hadn't wanted it any other way, he'd scratched them out of his life. He'd denied them, so successfully that he'd completely deleted any memory of them in his conscious mind.

However, what had started as a safety mechanism, both for them and for himself, must have contributed to his mental decline. How could he have ever hoped to get through this without his family and friends, worse, without the memory of them? How could he have been so stupid?

Then again, when that ever-present image of his brother came back to his mind and made his chest contract so he could hardly breathe, he had no trouble understanding why he'd done that. It had just been too awful to be to blame for his brother's death, too awful to bear the thought of something like that happening again, and too awful to bear the thought of it having happened already. He just couldn't have born the idea that Don had died or that someone else would die because they'd come looking for him.

The problem was: he _wanted_ Don to be looking for him. It was as though he hadn't learned anything at all from all his nightmares, both the ones he went through in his sleep and the one he was living in. What was wrong with him? He _knew_ what would happen if Don came again to rescue him, he knew they would expect him again, ambush him, kill him, all because of him, only because of him…

But they wouldn't do it _again_ , he reminded himself, he had to keep that in mind. Don _hadn't_ come last fall, they hadn't expected him, ambushed him, killed him. All that had only been in his head, in his head and in their lies. But the truth was that Don was alive, that he was out there, that there was still a chance he would find him.

But… even if they hadn't killed him last time, what made him think that they wouldn't kill him this time? Even though they hadn't killed Don last time, there had been a body, he was sure of that, he'd _seen_ it. _Someone_ had died. Maybe he'd been killed just as a prop for that scene that should have ensured Charlie's collaboration, maybe the stranger, the lookalike-Don, had already been dead – that was something Charlie couldn't determine. He did know, however, that whoever that stranger had been, they had humiliated him when he'd already been dead. They had defiled his dead body, bereaved him of his dignity. They had done all that just to make him collaborate, to make him continue the work he'd started for them. They were ruthless.

And he'd been one of them.


	34. Men and Their Cars

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1  
 **A/N:** Two things, 1) thank you very much for your support!, 2) sorry about this.

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34\. Men and Their Cars

Juan Juarez whistled softly when he saw the car. A Ford Model A from 1931. Beautiful piece. For now.

It hadn't been difficult to figure out which car belonged to his target. His employers had equipped him with the information of the professor's working place, a picture of the car and the bill from the buy. There was no information they couldn't get to. He had only needed to wait until the precious vehicle had rolled onto the university's parking lot in an overly careful snail's pace.

He watched his target get out of the vehicle and enter the building after some brief discussions with some students. He waited for a little bit longer, until for most people lectures seemed to have started. Luckily, it was early morning, these were the first lectures of the day and thus, there was practically nobody here save the students and professors that were now inside attending or giving their lectures. And if there were others around, they seemed to be in the library and not out on campus or otherwise somewhere in view of the vintage car. It was a good thing the vehicle was at some distance from the center of campus.

Juan had been considering in advance whether it would be wiser to do his work in the shadow of the masses or rather when nobody would be around at all, for in the latter case, he'd be all the more noticeable to those few people who _were_ around. After some consideration, however, he'd come to the conclusion that a 1931 Ford Model A attracted attention no matter how many people there were around, especially if someone meddled with it.

He was going to do this then, here and now, where and when nobody would suspect a thing. He casually glanced around one last time and then, satisfied, set to work.

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"Okay, thanks, David." Megan ended the call and turned back to the files in her lap.

Even though Don, sitting next to her on the driver's seat, had paid little enough attention to the traffic to listen to every word of her side of the conversation and therefore thought he knew what her answer would be, he still asked the question, "Did they find anything?"

Megan shook her head, which she was still holding bent over the files. "No. There were some other orderlies who showed suspicious behavior, but other than a small-time drug dealer among the nurses, they didn't find anything." Don was already inhaling, but she wouldn't give him a chance to speak. "And no, Don, the drug dealer has nothing to do with Charlie's disappearance."

Don was silent for some moments. "And the files?" he then asked. They had gone directly from Anna Silversteen's former apartment to Jackson PD and after some mediocre resistance and multiple phone conversations between Jackson PD and the FBI, they'd finally gotten access to the files from her murder. The case was still open and therefore the FBI agents had been surprised that her apartment had been cleared so quickly, but apparently they'd gotten everything from there they could find.

In the late hours of the evening, they had found a motel to stay for the night to study the files and get some much-needed rest. The motel was cheap and not a place they would have liked to stay for long, but they hadn't wanted to waste time on looking for another place to stay. Besides, Don couldn't bear the thought of doing himself well while his brother might be held in who knew what kind of place.

They had tried to work their way into the case of Anna Silversteen, but they both had been too tired to concentrate any longer and finally decided to get some sleep. Now, they were on their way to Anna Silversteen's boyfriend. They hadn't tried contacting her parents yet, but they were hoping that it wouldn't be necessary either.

"Alright," Megan started to summarize the information she'd gathered about the murder case, "Anna Silversteen has been stabbed to death in the kitchen of her apartment on Monday, April 23, around five or six in the evening. She was found by her boyfriend who had intended to pick her up for a date at seven that night. He called the police and the autopsy showed that just as it had appeared, she had been killed with her own meat knife. There were no fingerprints on the knife, nor any other traces to be found that the killer may have left."

"Do they suspect someone?"

Megan filed through the papers. "No… They seem to have interrogated the boyfriend pretty thoroughly, but he's got an alibi and apparently couldn't tell them anything that would have helped them much. Other than that, they seem to be completely in the dark, they don't even seem to have a suspicion about the motive yet. Her purse had been stolen, but the information from her bank account indicate that there couldn't have been more than a hundred dollars in it. Other than that, nothing; the apartment hasn't been searched, there are no indications for a sexual motive and both her boyfriend and her parents stated that she didn't have any enemies. Jackson PD can't be suspecting anything else than a burglar."

"It must have something to do with Charlie," Don said in a very low voice.

Megan didn't say anything. She was afraid that Don was getting worked up about this matter too much, but at the same time she had to agree with him: everything pointed indeed to Anna Silversteen having been killed because of her presumed connection to Charlie's kidnappers. Despite the stolen wallet, robbery as a motive seemed extremely unlikely; it was more plausible that the money had been stolen merely as a distraction. Granted, it was conceivable that Anna Silversteen had surprised a burglar who had then lashed out at her in panic, but both the not very expensive neighborhood in combination with the not very easily accessible apartment and the fact that it didn't look as though the intruder had been searching for anything didn't make that scenario very likely.

On the other hand, it was an extremely suggestive factor that both crimes – Anna Silversteen's murder and Charlie's kidnapping – had occurred on the same day, albeit hundreds of miles apart from each other. And the factor became even more suggestive if they considered that according to their witness, Anna had been watching Charlie during his stay at the clinic. That made a fair number of questions arise: why had she done that? What was her connection to Charlie's kidnappers? Or was it just a coincidence? That seemed very unlikely. But if there was a connection, what was it? Was Anna one of the kidnappers? And if so, why had she been killed? Maybe there were animosities among the kidnappers? Or maybe she hadn't been a full member of the kidnapper's group, but only a spy in their pocket? Or maybe she had found out something about Charlie's kidnappers, maybe she'd blackmailed them?

The other problem was: would the answers to these questions help them in their search for Charlie?

Eventually, they arrived at the apartment of Anna's boyfriend, one certain Pete Thorpe. A quite handsome twenty-nine-year-old (at least that was the age the files gave him) opened the door. He was of average height, thoroughly fit and had dark, slightly ruffled hair. After they'd shown him their badges, he led them inside, into an apartment that showed in its furniture and the lack of tidiness that he was living there alone, and offered them a seat on his black bachelor's couch.

"Mr. Thorpe, we're here because we hope you might help us in the kidnapping case of Charles Eppes," Don started the conversation. He was watching Thorpe intently when he mentioned his brother's name. Did he show any reaction? Did he know his name? Had Anna told him anything about him? If so, had she been using Charlie's real name or the name the clinic had given him? For Don couldn't see any suspicious reaction, but maybe that was about to come now.

"Charles –?" Thorpe repeated and looked a bit confused. Apparently he'd thought that the agents' visit had something to do with the death of his girlfriend. "And how am I supposed to help you with that?"

"He was a patient of your girlfriend's. Maybe you know him by the name 'Michael'."

Thorpe still didn't seem to have any clue as to who that was. "I'm sorry. I have no idea what you're talking about."

The worst part was that Don believed him. Thorpe was convincing, very convincing. Judging from the look of utter confusion on his face, he might not be a brainiac, but the term 'liar' seemed just as inappropriate. And that meant that once more, they had reached a dead end.

Megan wasn't giving up though. "We received a tip that this patient has been monitored by your girlfriend. Has she ever mentioned to you anything of that sort?"

Thorpe shook his head. "No. She never talked about her former job. Plus, we've only known each other for about a month now." Judging from the dreamy expression in his eyes, he had to consider that time a really nice month.

"Alright." Megan was rubbing her forehead, but still seemed determined not to give up this lead. "Maybe your girlfriend mentioned some sort of… additional income?"

Don couldn't help but feel a certain admiration towards his colleague, for even though his head wasn't clear enough to think of it himself, he had no problem understanding what Megan was getting at: if Anna Silversteen hadn't talked to her boyfriend about Charlie (or Michael) and if he hadn't noticed her interest in him, it was reasonable to assume that the nurse hadn't been watching him for personal motives. In this case, it was the most plausible scenario that she had accepted the watch as an assignment, which made it likely that she had been paid for it. Of course, it was always possible that she'd done it for other reasons, maybe they had put some kind of pressure on her, but the fact that she had apparently been able to build herself a new life and what she'd said to her friend at the clinic made the money theory more likely.

Thorpe thought hard about the question, at least that was what it seemed like, judging from his deeply furrowed forehead. "Well," he said eventually, "she mentioned something like that once. Something like she was getting money without having to do anything for it but make a phone call once a week. I didn't really get it and I asked her about it, but I don't remember what she…" He thought for a second. "She never gave me a real answer!" it then occurred to him. "She just changed the subject."

Don was fully back in the game. "What phone call was she talking about? Who was she talking to? Do you have their names or their numbers?"

"No, those were on her cell."

If Don remembered the facts of the police report correctly, there had been no mentioning of a cell phone. "And where is her cell now? Do you have it? Or her parents?"

"No, she threw it away, that's why I asked her about it and then she told me about that… that additional income. She said that she didn't need that money anymore."

"She threw her cell away?"

"I just said that."

Don bit his lower lip. He could hardly contain his frustration any longer. They had finally found a lead, the best they'd found so far, for that number had to lead them directly to Charlie – and now it was gone.

But maybe… maybe Anna Silversteen had been so imprudent to write the number down somewhere in her home? In that case they would find it sooner or later if they went through her things one by one. Probably later rather than sooner, yes, but if there was only the slightest chance that they would find the number that way –

"What's her number?" Megan's question interrupted Don's train of thoughts.

"Anna's?"

"Yes. If she threw her cell away, maybe someone found it and turned it in to lost and found, or kept it for himself. In any case there's a chance that we can still get that number from it she used to call."

Don swallowed. Yes, there was a chance for that, but there was also a chance that the cell was already lying in some dumpster, turned off and with an empty battery, not sending any signals anymore. But they had to hope, they just had to hope…

Thorpe gave them the number and they quickly said good-bye and left. _We might get back to you in case further questions arise._ They could only hope that this wouldn't be necessary, that they would finally make some progress.

When they got into the car, Megan had already punched in Anna's cell number. The two of them were waiting anxiously in the parked car. Megan hadn't put the conversation on speaker to avoid scaring away the person at the other end immediately, but Don was leaning over towards her so closely that he could listen in. For both of them, there was no question that it would be better if Megan did the talking.

If there was going to be any talking at all. This was already the fourth beep. _Nobody's answering,_ Don thought, desperation tightening his throat, _nobody's –_

"Yeah?"

Don's heart almost stopped with relief. Somebody had answered. It was a man's voice, deep and throaty.

"Hello, my name is Megan Reeves. To whom am I speaking?" Megan asked in her most charming tone.

That didn't seem to have any effect at the other end, though. "Harry," was the brief reply, and despite the brevity, they could discern mistrust in the voice.

"Harry…?"

"Harry nothing. Just Harry for you. What do you want?"

Megan tried, with great success, not to be thrown by his offhand behavior. "I'd like to talk to you, Harry. Where are you right now?"

"What do you want?" Harry repeated.

Megan thought feverishly. No matter what she said, she had to avoid at all cost to say anything that might make her collocutor hang up on her. Until now, they seemed to be lucky in that regard, for despite his taciturnity, Harry didn't seem intent on ending the call. "I'd like to have a quick glance at your cell phone, Harry, that's all."

The mistrust grew. "Why? Who are you?"

Megan decided to tell him the truth. Or at least part of it. "I'm with the FBI. I urgently need a number that might be stored on that phone. I assume you've found it somewhere?"

"You want to take it from me?"

"No, Harry, I'd only like to have a look at it, I promise. I'm right though, you found it recently?"

A short hesitation. Then, "Yeah."

Megan gave a small sigh of relief. "Alright. So how about I drop by wherever you are right now and take a quick look at the phone? You mind telling me where you are?"

"Livingston Park. Near the zoo entry."

"Alright, we'll be there at once. Please stay where you are."

Megan ended the call. Both she and Don leaned back into their seats with a sigh before determination won over again and set them moving. In a couple of minutes, they would, with all probability, have the phone number of one of Charlie's kidnappers.

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Amita was looking about as tired as Larry felt when they said goodbye at the main entrance of CalSci. The afternoon sun was setting, but it had been a week now that they had stopped living by the rhythm of moon and sun and that night had stopped meaning rest for them.

Their progress was much too slow. The curvelet analysis was extremely time-consuming since the two cameras, the one from CalSci and the one from the rental car company, gave them hardly any usable data points. True, they had something that resembled faces by now, but it was still too little for the facial recognition software to give them results.

Despite the tiredness, Larry couldn't shake a crawling sensation whenever his mind wasn't occupied with complex algorithms and expressions. And right now, his head was empty, in any case empty of math, and surprisingly enough even relatively clear, thanks to the cool evening breeze. In any case it was clear enough for him to recognize that they weren't making any progress. And that this couldn't be good for Charles.

He closed his eyes briefly. Once again, he wondered what would happen if they failed, if they didn't find him. However, he managed to push the question into the back of his mind fast enough before he had to give himself an answer.

He got into his car and tried not to let himself sink in too deeply into the seat cushion. For now, he had to fight off his tiredness, he first had to get home safely.

At bottom, he never drove fast with the car – or, as Larry liked to call it, with his piece of art –, but down the little hill on which CalSci was located, he dared to go over 25 miles per hour – and even that he did only to spare the brakes. He always operated them just a little, a tiny little bit –

Right now, however, he seemed to overdo the 'a little' a little. The 'piece of art' increased in velocity, the speedometer told Larry that he was already going at almost 30 miles per hour. He'd never gone that fast with this car.

 _It has to be the tiredness_ , he thought, although the tiredness was gone now. More determined than he'd done so far, he operated the brakes. They didn't react. The vehicle went on without reducing its velocity. Larry floored the brake pedal.

Nothing happened.


	35. Struggles of Life

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1

* * *

35\. Struggles of Life

Larry was panicking. But even in that poor state his mind found itself in, the nerves in his brain still hadn't lost their touch with logic: he wanted to survive and he was aware that, since he'd left the state of evolution behind when quick bodily reactions served to run from saber-toothed tigers, panic wouldn't do him any good now. Thus, he had to try and proceed rationally. Alright then. So far, everything was clear.

However, the execution of his plan presented a more palpable problem. He wasn't supposed to be panicking? And how again was he supposed to do that?! His car was steadily increasing in speed, the road continued downhill and was still slightly wet from the brief shower earlier and –

 _Oh dear L-rd._

Directly in front of him, in the bend, out of nowhere, a tree had materialized.

In a single motion, Larry opened the door. The road was passing by beneath him at a crazy velocity, but he didn't really have time to watch that scene for long. With a giant leap and a rolling movement he would have never trusted himself to be capable of, Larry landed very ungently on the hard asphalt. His body rolled onwards until it came to a halt, halfway on the street, halfway on the grass. At the same moment, he heard a loud bang, then a hiss. He didn't dare to look.

He stayed there for a few minutes, lying on the street, incapable of moving. He wasn't unconscious, at least that he was now relatively sure of, but he could feel that it would currently be beyond his strength to sit up.

He could hear footsteps and cries. People were chaotically shouting incomprehensible things. Larry understood neither what they were saying nor could he tell how many they were. He wanted to find out, he intended to open his eyes, but his eye-lids were too heavy and the more he was trying to get nearer to those voices, the more they seemed to get away from him. And then, there was no more afternoon sun and darkness descended upon him.

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Night was already descending when Megan and Don arrived at Livingston Park. 'Harry' – if that was his real name – seemed to have told them the truth, at least there was really a zoo here.

When Megan and Don approached its entrance, the suspicion they'd nurtured so far was confirmed, for at a few yards' distance from the zoo entrance, three men of different ages and similar appearance were sitting on a bench. They didn't seem to be very clean, appeared to be rather shabby, and if the FBI agents had had children with them, they probably would have given them a well-measured berth. However, as things stood, they went up directly towards the three obviously homeless men.

"Hi there! Is one of you Harry?" Megan started the conversation. Don was standing slightly behind her, every muscle tense. He was prepared to react as soon as anything wasn't going as it was supposed to.

"You could say that," the one in the middle said and Megan recognized his voice as Harry's. He seemed to be in his early fifties and thus also age-wise in the middle of his friends. The man to his left had to be at least sixty years old, the other one hardly forty. At a second glance, Don was able to calm down a little, for even though their clothes were more than well-worn and Don would have never let anyone see him in an outfit like that, all three of them appeared to be sober and in full command of their mental faculties.

"We spoke on the phone," Megan said.

"I remember," Harry replied. It didn't seem like he'd become more eloquent since their phone conversation.

His taciturnity wasn't something to make Don more patient. "So do you also remember your promise?"

Harry gave Don a provocative look before turning back to Megan. "What's his deal?" he asked her.

"He's my colleague." Megan forced herself to remain calm and at the same time alert as they showed them their badges. "We're with the FBI and we'd be very grateful if you let us have a look at that cell phone now."

Harry pulled the gadget out of his pocket and held it right under the agents' noses. "Here it is."

"We'd like to have a look at the address book," Megan specified and held out her hand expectantly.

"You'd like that, huh." Harry paused for dramatic effect. "And what's that gonna yield for us?"

Don couldn't hold himself back any longer. "You should be glad that we don't report you for trover. Besides, what do you even want with a phone?" It wasn't like Harry could have many close friends he could call. Worse, in Harry's circles, a status symbol like a cell phone wasn't just a reason to start an argument; with a high enough blood alcohol level it might even present a motive for murder.

Harry smiled disparagingly. "You know, your friend is much better with that whole negotiating tactics than you, man," he bluntly told Don. "Maybe you can't imagine, but three years ago, I also had a phone like this, plus a house, a wife and a job at which I probably earned twice as much as you. Anyway. I don't mind giving you that thing. Trust me, it can be a real nuisance to always try and find a power outlet. And I don't have any real use for it either. You know, strangely enough it's not that common among my friends to call each other on the phone. The devil knows why."

He grinned at them with sparkling eyes and Don and Megan felt forced to give him a pained smile back.

"So we've got no problem with giving you this thing," Harry continued. "But unfortunately, my buddies and I, we're always a little short of cash."

It wasn't hard to figure out what Harry wanted. On the one hand, Don was reluctant to give in that guy's demands and just give him money, but considering the circumstances he didn't really try to find alternatives.

He took out his wallet, prepared that any moment one of these three men might yank it out of his hands, but they didn't make any move to do that. Instead, they waited patiently for Don to retrieve a $20 bill and hold it out towards them.

Harry tilted his head and raised his eye-brows. "Are you serious? Listen, we're not stupid, okay? And we all were business-men, once upon a time. I know that people like you don't care about that and can't get rid of your prejudice that homeless people are just stupid, lazy drunks, but I'm telling you this: you can't fob us off like that. I mean, it's not that hard to see that you're quite desperate to get your hands on this thing," he held the phone up, "so I guess a good old Benjamin would be the least we can expect."

Don clenched his teeth. A hundred dollars for something that those three men had probably found – and stolen! – in some dumpster, completely free of charge. On the other hand, Don was well aware that at bottom, he didn't care about the money one bit. This was about Charlie, and the phone was the only viable lead they had. There really wasn't anything to think about. He was just glad that he had the sum they demanded on him and tried not thinking about how unprofessional his behavior was, but rather about the possibilities it opened up for them.

The phone – even with its charger lead, which Harry pulled out of the depths of his coat – and the money were exchanged. The three homeless people seemed pretty pleased with themselves, but Don was still wary. However, when he checked the phone's address book and found both a 'Pete' and a 'Doris Conrad', he was satisfied: this seemed indeed to be Anna Silversteen's phone. They would wait for a more thorough examination until they would be at their motel room though, also because they'd had to charge it first; the battery was pretty low and they weren't keen on delaying their search further by first having to figure out Anna's PIN.

When Megan and Don turned their backs towards their 'business partners', Harry called out a "Good night!" to them. However, even though Don was hoping that this night would be more pleasant than the previous ones, he had no idea of knowing what it had in store for them.

* * *

The phone was being charged and only now did Don consider it safe to look for the mysterious source of money. He and Megan first went through all the names, taking down those they didn't know. They'd check them one by one later. Or at least that was what they intended to do.

Until they found John Doe.

Both of them stared at the phone for some seconds in disbelief. Don couldn't fathom it. Had they actually found him? Was this one of Charlie's kidnappers? It was somehow too good to be true.

"Maybe Anna knew someone who was actually called like this?" Don pointed out.

Megan looked at him skeptically. Who would give their child a name that was commonly used for unidentified corpses?

"And then how should we proceed, according to you?" she asked.

"Well, we could call the number, for starters," Don proposed without thinking.

This new, more than promising lead seemed to have stoked up his zest for action a bit too much, otherwise Megan would have never been compelled to explain to him what a poor idea that was. "Don – if we call this John Doe now, he's warned and then he'll probably go into hiding."

Don bowed his head, his features pinched. Not for the first time, it occurred to him that this case was asking too much of him. He was making mistakes he would have never made otherwise, he was grimly determined, had blinders on, was focused on only one goal and in his frenzy to reach that, he overlooked all the rest. And more and more often he wondered whether it wouldn't have been wiser after all to hand the case over to someone else.

Thank G-d he had his team, even though he wasn't completely at ease with this new way of dealing with the chain of command. He didn't like asking them for advice. This was about Charlie, though, so he'd just have to swallow his pride. "So what would you suggest that we do?"

"First of all, we should find out whom that number belongs to, and then we should check his or her background. _Without_ this person knowing anything about what we're doing.

Don nodded slowly, but didn't have time to agree with her for at that moment, his cell phone rang.

"Eppes."

He silently listened for a while. Megan was watching him. She didn't like what she saw, she didn't like it at all. She thought she could see her boss blanch a bit, and his eyes widened. Whatever news he was just getting, they couldn't be good. However, merely from his answers she couldn't figure out what had happened.

"Yeah, she's here with me. I'm going to tell her. Thanks, Amita. And give him our best, alright? Bye."

He disconnected the call and although he could feel Megan's piercing look upon him, he was silent for a while and just stared at the table in front of him before he turned towards her. "Alright, Megan, please don't get upset now."

His words immediately made her even more alarmed than she already was. "What's going on?"

"Larry was in an accident."

Don hadn't been sure how his usually so tough colleague might react to that. Her look of dismay didn't really come as a surprise though.

"What's wrong with him?" she asked so quickly that he could only guess what words she'd said.

"He's fine, considering. He's conscious and responsive. But he'll be staying at the hospital overnight."

Don had thought it more prudent to calm Megan down first, but it hadn't been of much use. " _He's in the hospital?!_ "

"Apparently it's nothing too serious, but he's got a lot of cuts and bruises. And he _might_ have a concussion, they aren't sure yet and that's why they want to keep him there, for observation. Megan – he's fine, Amita already spoke with him."

"He's fine?!" Megan repeated, aghast. "And then why is he at the hospital?" And how was he supposed to be fine, with all those injuries? And where had he gotten those injuries in the first place? "What happened," she demanded to know.

"I don't know exactly, a car accident apparently. Amita could talk to him only briefly, she didn't know anything concrete either, but… Look, Megan, there's something else, but please, don't get upset, alright?" For Don wasn't sure if he could already be the one of them that kept a clear head. On the other hand, he hardly had a choice. "So Amita was able to talk to Larry after the accident."

"You already said that."

Don wasn't deterred by her impatience. "And Larry told her… Megan, it looks as though it wasn't an accident."

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"And you really don't know who might have done this?"

Larry carefully shook his head that was lying on the soft hospital cushions. Gradually, he could feel that heavy tiredness descend upon him again. Maybe that was connected to the pain medication, even though Larry wasn't a hundred per cent sure if they had actually given him pain medication, for somehow, he still hurt all over.

He sighed and closed his eyes, but re-opened them quickly when he heard Amita's worried voice, "Are you alright?"

He regarded her silently. She was exceedingly pale, the only splash of color on her face were the dark smudges underneath her eyes. She had to look at least as beat as him. However, if he wasn't mistaken, at least part of her paleness had been caused by his first revelation to her after the accident, _I think this was intentional._

Amita had been shocked at that suspicion, and the shock hadn't left her when he'd explained his thoughts to her: somebody had to have tampered with his car, probably somebody had cut the brake lines. Granted, Larry's car was old – but it was in excellent condition. Nobody could convince him that the brakes had just stopped working like that.

Especially not considering their current investigation.

It was the only explanation Larry could think of, for as far as he knew, there was nobody who would like to see him dead – because that must have been the saboteur's intention, or at least he had to have allowed for the possibility. If the brake lines of his car had indeed been cut, it was an attempt on his life.

"I think Don should know about this."

"I already told him," Amita replied.

Larry closed his eyes again. He was glad that she was here. At bottom, he'd only called her because he'd feared that she had been attacked in a similar way as him, but now he realized how liberating it was to know that she was here to take care of everything. He would have been completely overwhelmed with this situation on his own.

He heard the door open and opened his eyes in turn, but only to slits. However, they were open wide enough for him to see a nurse enter the room. "I'll have to ask you to leave now," she said to Amita. "Dr. Fleinhardt needs to rest."

"Of course," Amita said and stood, but turned back down towards him one more time. "I'll come back tomorrow."

Larry nodded, but his eyes fell shut before he could voice his last thought, _Take good care of you._


	36. Errare Humanum Est

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1

* * *

36\. Errare Humanum Est

Megan seemed to be uncharacteristically antsy since the previous night, exactly until the moment when Thursday morning, her phone rang. Larry. Don retreated discretely. He would have considered it callous to remind her that they were still looking for Charlie before she hadn't had the opportunity to talk to him. Besides, even though he was impatient to go on in their search, he couldn't fail but notice that Larry's 'accident' seemed to be connected to Charlie's disappearance, and that thought was more than a little disconcerting.

What the hell was going on here?

Don buried himself in the old, musty armchair, one of the few pieces of furniture in their motel room, and in his thoughts. This case seemed so confusing to him… but that could easily be due to the fact that his mind had lost its ability for calm and rational deliberation.

So back to the facts. They knew that Anna Silversteen, a former nurse of Charlie's, had received money for her observations of him, probably from John Doe. They had been able to trace the transactions back, but that had only led them to a man called Hugh Pratchett, who was over ninety years old. When they'd looked deeper into the matter, they'd found that he was already dead, even though his bank account was still active. Pratchett didn't have any relatives and thus they had no clue as to who might have taken over the old man's bank account after his passing, especially since for over a week now, there were no more transactions going on that they could have traced back.

So Anna Silversteen had received money. But why had she been killed? It didn't look as though she was involved deeper in this matter as her role as an informant entailed, so the most plausible scenario was that it was the information that she'd forwarded that had gotten her killed. But how? Given everything they knew, she hadn't blackmailed her former employers; otherwise she would have hardly thrown her cell phone away. So it seemed to Don as though when Charlie had been back with them and thus Anna's usefulness as an informant had reached its end, she had been killed because Charlie's kidnappers had wanted to eliminate their confidant. They'd probably been afraid that Anna, as soon as she'd hear about the kidnapping – which she would have in the course of the FBI's investigation if she hadn't already been dead –, would tell them the truth about everything, so they'd eliminated her as a potential threat.

As a potential help for the FBI.

So these two cases, the murder and the kidnapping, had to be connected, but now there was a third case on top of it: the sabotage of Larry's car. Granted, the report of the investigation of that case wasn't available yet, but Don was certain that they were dealing with sabotage and, to be more precise, with the very same group of people that had committed the other two crimes. Thus, this group had to be very powerful or in any event very well connected, considering that they could be active both in California and in Mississippi simultaneously.

A memory shot through Don's mind like lightning, a memory of the conversation he'd had with his boss the day that Charlie had allegedly been arrested. _It could also be that you have tangled with a very powerful opponent,_ Stevens had said. Unfortunately, Don felt more and more compelled to believe his words.

What made matters worse was the fact that their opponent didn't just seem to be powerful, but also unscrupulous. If Don was right with his suspicions, they had killed a woman in her own apartment in plain daylight just because there was a risk that she might endanger their plans by becoming a witness. And they had assaulted a university's professor just because he was a consultant on this case.

And those were the men whose hands Charlie had fallen into.

The main problem was that Don just couldn't see the motive that had to be behind everything this group was doing. He had to see it though, he had to find it, he had to know what was going on and how everything was connected, for by and by this whole case was involving consequences which sooner or later would be asking too much of each and every one of them. Larry had already suffered assault, but how far would Charlie's kidnappers go in their attempt to checkmate their adversaries? Who would be next? And could Don really continue taking the responsibility for each and every one of them? Larry could have just as well died from that assault. Did Don even have the right to continue asking for the help of civilians to solve this case?

But this was about Charlie…

Don ran his hands over his face. He just didn't know. Was his view on things still unhindered or was he so biased he couldn't even tell anymore? He didn't know. He just knew that he had to maintain a clear head.

He tried to approach the subject from the other end. This was about Charlie, that was a fact – so would Amita and Larry even consent to stopping their consulting work? No… no, probably not. And after all, they weren't stupid, they had a certain idea of what kind of risk they were taking… Yeah, it probably wasn't even for Don to decide about the continuation of their involvement…

His mouth was twitching. Was he doing it again? Was he putting on blinders, was he seeing what he saw only because he refused to see anything else? He had to be sure.

"Megan?"

She turned her head around to face him. There was a slight smile on her face that became gradually overshadowed by the look of a guilty conscience. "Hold on a sec," she said into the receiver and then to Don, "What is it?"

"In case Amita and Larry are willing to continue working on those images, tell them to do their work at the FBI. Until we know whether we can get a security detail for them."

Megan nodded slowly. She swallowed. "Alright," she said and forwarded the information to the other end of the line.

Don sighed. All of a sudden, he felt extremely tired. Still, he knew that there was no way he would rest until Charlie wasn't safely back with them.

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This time, Rosenthal wanted to lead the interrogation himself again. Playing hardball. This time, it would work. They were going to get him now – _after one and a half weeks!_ as he noted bitterly.

"Alright, Professor, are you finally willing to cooperate with us?"

"No, I'm not. Let me go. This is deprivation of liberty."

Rosenthal was watching his prisoner. He seemed exhausted and was obviously tired of the never-changing questions and his never-changing answers, but he could also see the determination in his eyes. Eppes was firmly determined not to collaborate with them.

Rosenthal was curious as to how long his determination was going to last. He was almost in the mood for betting.

"You're wrong. It would only be deprivation of liberty if you were here against your will."

He had him. He was so close… The professor raised his eyes and stared at him and Rosenthal was hardly able to contain his pleasant anticipation. There was so much fear in those querying eyes that it was a real joy for him to stall for a little while longer.

"Are you still convinced that your friends are looking for you?" he finally asked with mock casualness.

The professor hesitated. "I don't know," he then said.

This was it. Rosenthal had him. Eppes was afraid for his friends, he could practically feel that. If he made it clear to him now how justified this fear was, he'd be able to turn him around, Rosenthal was sure of that. So maybe their guy in Los Angeles had gone a little far, but the result was better than Rosenthal could have ever imagined.

"But we do know," he said and pulled out the computer print of the scanned newspaper article that Juan had sent him few minutes earlier. "We know exactly who out there is trying to find you. We know everything. And _you_ should know that we don't like people interfering with our affairs."

He unfolded the sheet of paper and held it out to his prisoner. They had cut off the text of the article – it said that Fleinhardt had survived – and gave him only the picture. It showed the professor's vintage car stuck to the tree as a pile of junk with the driver's side so damaged that it was unimaginable that the driver could have survived this accident. A beautiful picture.

Rosenthal concentrated on Eppes's reaction. He noticed that both the frequency and the intensity of the heaving of his torso increased while he was staring at the photo. A sign of arising panic. Very good.

"You're trying to deceive me."

 _Yes!_ Rosenthal clenched a fist in his trouser pocket, this time not because of fury, but because of a feeling of triumph, for the professor's voice had become low, hardly perceptible, and very hoarse. _We've got him, we've got him, we've got him…_

"I don't know this car."

Alright, now that was pathetic. "Come on, Eppes, who are you kidding? Just look at it closely, I think you should even be able to read the license plate. But we both know that you don't have to, for we both know very well whom that car belongs to. And why we had to do this. Your friend started looking for you. He thought you wouldn't want to stay here with us. Sadly, this is the consequence of his misinterpretation."

The poor professor was still breathing heavily. How very touching.

"What happened to him?"

 _Woah_. Rosenthal leaned back a bit with his upper body. He wouldn't have expected a reaction like that. He'd misjudged Eppes. He wouldn't have thought that the professor's eyes would still be able to attack him with such a look of plain, glaring fury. No, that came unexpected.

Didn't help him much, though. It was still them who had the trump cards.

"Well, I don't know what happened to your friend. But if you ask me, it's not looking good. Tut, tut, tut… this car is really quite a wreck. I wonder if someone on the driver's seat could have survived that. I mean, it sure doesn't look like it and I heard they weren't too keen on seatbelts and airbags in the 30s, but you'd probably have to have some understanding of math and physics to be sure."

With delight, Rosenthal watched his victim clench his hands into fists. And _he_ certainly didn't do that because of a feeling of triumph.

"It's a real pity with your friend," Rosenthal continued with that cynicism that – at least in his own opinion – fit him so well. "I wonder how the people associated with him might react to this tragedy. I heard he had quite a lovely colleague, a certain Amita Ramanujan." Rosenthal wasn't entirely sure, but he thought that the fists were clenched even tighter at his mentioning of her name. Eppes continued to avoid looking into his eyes though and instead kept his head bent down stubbornly. "I wonder how she might react? Who knows, maybe she's so desperate about her colleague's accident that she'll jump off the roof of one of the university buildings? Or maybe she'll accidentally take an overdose of sleeping pills? Such things can happen so easily to people who are desperate or depressed. Who knows, maybe there'll be another article in tomorrow's newspaper featuring her. Well, if you ask me, Professor, I think she'd be a lot safer if you finally consented to collaborating with us."

Rosenthal was certain that the professor understood, he'd made his situation abundantly clear to him. Now, there could be no doubt that Eppes would cooperate with them. They'd presumably killed his best friend and were now threatening to do away with his girlfriend as well. Eppes hardly had a choice.

He shoved a contract before him that basically made him their slave and stated that everything they had done to him so far had happened with his consent. When Eppes still didn't react, he held a pen out to him. "Well, Professor?"

"I…" His voice was only a croaking now. They got him, damn it, they finally got him!

"Yes?"

Eppes lifted his head. His hands were still clenched and you could still see the fury in his eyes, but there was more in them. Since he was still a bit high from his feeling of triumph, Rosenthal couldn't be sure what it was, but it felt a little as though those eyes were x-raying him.

Both Eppes's look and his silence stretched on before he finally answered.

"No."

You could even hear the professor swallow in the dead silence.

"No," he then repeated. "I won't help you."

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His team was simply the best. Both in Mississippi and in Nebraska, they had plodded through mountains of sometimes more, sometimes less secret documents, usually digital ones, and hadn't stopped until they'd finally found what they'd been looking for: the group of Charlie's kidnappers.

Starting from John Doe's phone number, they'd first determined who his provider was and after several phone calls and negotiations they'd eventually gotten some access to the user's data. Granted, they did not have his name, but they had some of the numbers he'd called, even though there had been no call made from that phone since Anna Silversteen's murder and Charlie's disappearance. Maybe because they'd gotten scared? They had probably cursed quite a lot when they hadn't been able to find their spy's cell phone, the only thing that connected her to them.

They were unable to identify most of the owners of the cell phone numbers since they, just like John Doe himself, didn't have a contract for their phone and thus hadn't been obliged to state their personal data when they'd bought the cell. Apart from the cell phone numbers, however, they also found three landline numbers on John Doe's list of contacts. A routine check revealed that all three belonged to law enforcement agencies, two to the CIA, the other one to the FBI. And when they did a little more poking around, the bombshell was dropped: the third number belonged to a Clifford Wellman, who'd been with the FBI for a little more than a decade now. And who, a little less than two weeks ago, had gone into hiding.

It hadn't taken long until, with the help of some coaxing, the A.D. in charge, James Burbank, had provided them with the most basic results of the current investigation: Wellman was still untraceable, but the investigating team was following a promising lead in the Yellowstone National Park.

Don had felt almost feverish when he'd heard that, and his ears had started ringing. They were so close now, this was such a promising lead… A national park, that would be perfect, the perfect hiding place for kidnappers and their kidnapping victim. Wellman had gone into hiding, and he was connected to John Doe, and John Doe had paid Anna to watch Charlie… It just fit together so perfectly, this _had_ to be it, they were so close… All of a sudden, their progress was so fast that Don had to be careful not to lose track of what was going on. They couldn't allow themselves to make another mistake now, they had to stay focused.

In the morning, a chopper would be ready for Megan and him to take them to Montana, to the edge of the park, where they would meet the investigating team. And David and Colby, if everything went according to plan.

It was Thursday evening now and it was late, but Don could hardly entertain the thought of going to bed even though Megan was already sound asleep. He didn't know how she was doing that. Granted, the day had been wearing, but Don still seemed to be filled with an ineradicable amount of energy, although it had to be nervous energy, pure adrenaline that had been born from the newly awakened hope to get nearer to his brother with every minute passing.

Don was more than satisfied with the results of the day. They'd not only made significant progress in the case, but he'd also been able to organize a security detail for Amita and Larry – after having them accommodated in Charlie's house, not without ulterior motives concerning his dad. And they didn't make just progress with the case, they were also making progress in their search for Charlie, they were finally getting closer to him. Only yesterday, they'd found out about John Doe, and today, they already had a whole group of kidnappers in their sights. It was about time. However, Don was aware that even though they now had the group in their sights, they were still eyeing them through binoculars, so to speak. They had an idea where to go on with their search, yes, but Don couldn't deny that the other FBI team had been searching for Wellman and his presumed accomplices for one and a half weeks now without success. Why should he be hoping that they would be more successful? It was completely irrational and yet, his hope remained.

With their goal in view and with his eyes staring into the emptiness of their dark motel room, the moment had come that Don could no longer ban the horror scenarios from his mind. He just _had_ to ask himself what Charlie's kidnappers might be doing to him, for the answer could be a necessary tool to find him.

Don shuddered when it occurred to him that they might already be too late. Maybe everything they were doing was in vain. Maybe the kidnappers had already gotten rid of his brother. Maybe they'd had no use for him anymore, maybe he'd become too great a risk for them, maybe they'd gotten cold feet, maybe they'd –

Charlie's lifeless body appeared before his inner eye, pale, his limbs distorted in an unnatural manner, lying on the bare floor in a barren room, lit only by a free-hanging light-bulb, his dark eyes staring at him without expression, without their lids sparing him this view, open and forever staring into the emptiness of another world, _dead_ …

Don hardly managed to suppress the urge to vomit, and there was no way to suppress the tears that were pressing against the backs of his eyes. _G-d, Charlie…_ What would happen if he actually lost him? If it was actually the way it had been last time when he'd thought him dead?

Don swallowed and was overcome by sudden weakness. He knew he couldn't bear that. He couldn't live through this a second time. Charlie had to be alive. It was the only way, for there was no doubt in Don's mind that his brother's end would also mark his own.


	37. Hope against Hope

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1  
 **A/N:** Merry Christmas everyone!

* * *

37\. Hope against Hope

Charlie's mind was still a sigma-algebra made up of an unclear number of chaotic systems when he was being led back into his cell. It was still working feverishly, still pondering, still analyzing the consequences in order to figure out if he hadn't made a mistake after all.

He hardly noticed the door falling shut behind him and neither had he paid much attention as to how his kidnappers had reacted to his refusal. Only dimly did he remember the long silence that had followed his rejection and Rosenthal's calm voice. _Unfortunate. Very unfortunate indeed,_ he'd said, now Charlie remembered, and only now did those words make shudders run down his spine. Maybe he'd made a mistake…?

But he'd hardly had a choice. Granted, he hadn't read the contract that Rosenthal had put in front of him – he'd really had no nerves for that – but he didn't doubt for a second that his signature would have meant his complete destruction. He would have surrendered himself to them completely, would have been in their hands once and for all without any hope to be released and they wouldn't even have committed a crime by doing so. No, it was beyond a doubt, he could never sign that contract.

Besides, if he had consented to the collaboration, there was a high likelihood that sooner or later he'd be forced again to make calculations that would ensue the death of numerous innocent people. There was no way he could do that, there was no way he could live with more murders on his conscience. There was no way. And this time, he would even know what he was doing… He was sick at the mere thought.

So collaboration wasn't a viable alternative. Still… He had recognized Larry's car, he'd recognized it beyond a doubt, and the numbers of the license plate that he'd been able to decipher had matched the ones of Larry's vehicle, too. But it couldn't be, right? Larry… he just couldn't –

Charlie thought he was going to be sick, but instead, his eyes just filled with tears. He tried to hold them back with the palms of his hands, but that only increased the nausea and the head-ache. He was sure his head was going to explode. He just couldn't go on like this, it was all too much…

It was just like it had been with Don.

Charlie forced himself to take slow and deep breaths. It had sufficiently worked during the interrogation, so it had to work now. He just had to think rationally. The only explanation for what had happened was that his kidnappers had once again lied to him. There _could_ be no other explanation. They'd told him that Don was dead too, but it hadn't been true, it had been a lie, so this too had to be a lie.

Maybe it was a composite photograph? Or maybe they'd stolen Larry's car and let it crash against a tree without anyone sitting in it? It had to be something like that, because it couldn't be, he just couldn't believe, he didn't _want_ to believe that these men would actually have gone so far, that they would have hurt Larry, that they would have… No. No, they'd fooled him once before and they wouldn't hesitate to do it again. All their goings-on down here were a horrible game of lies and deceptions, all being aimed at confusing him so much that he couldn't determine anymore what was true and what wasn't. He wouldn't give in, however, he wouldn't give this game up for lost, because he was sure, he was so sure that it was all just pretend…

But could he be sure enough?

They'd threatened to harm Amita. With that, all this wasn't just a game of lies and deceptions, it was a game of life and death. Of course, he was relatively sure that they'd faked it all – but what if he was wrong? What if his kidnappers would act on their threats – then what? Sure, with his rejection, Charlie had pulled an ace from his sleeve they hadn't been ready for and he was still having a good chance now to continue this game. However, he realized that he'd pushed his luck too far. Risking Amita's life was too high a stake even with a probability of winning of 99 per cent.

Charlie broke out in cold sweat. It didn't matter whether or not these CIA terrorists had deceived him – in any case, he'd made a mistake, a gigantic mistake, and all he could do was hope that it wasn't too late to make it undone.

He bolted to the door of his cell and pounded against the hard metal with his fists as though his life depended on it. Somehow, it did, because without Amita, there was no going back to the life he'd once had.

"Hold on!" he screamed on the top of his lungs. "Let me out! Let me out! I consent! I CONSENT!"

When they finally opened the door, the bottom side of Charlie's fists already sported ugly bruises, but he didn't even feel the pain. All he could feel was fear, that immense fear inside him.

Breathing heavily, Charlie was standing before a blond man who was looking a bit too fit for Charlie's current taste and looking a bit too grimly, too. Charlie was relatively sure he was called Patter, but since at their 'conversations' it had only been them who'd asked the questions, that was about everything he knew about him.

"You wanna collaborate?" The voice was cold and dry without the slightest amount of emotion.

Charlie's heart was beating in his throat. "Yes," he managed to say past the lump his larynx had become and noticed that his voice didn't sound like him one bit. Maybe this was a mistake after all?

"Hey, Dan!" Patter called out, and at the other end of the corridor, Rosenthal appeared, a quizzical look on his face. Patter grinned. "The doc changed his mind."

Charlie could see a diabolical glimmer in Rosenthal's eyes. And maybe his mind was just playing tricks on him – he knew his senses had been acting up for some days now – but his voice made him think of the madness of a cracked up scientist. "Take him to his office."

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Not even an hour after Don and Megan, also David and Colby arrived at the investigating team's makeshift headquarters. It was a log cabin at the north-western edge of the national park, in Montana. Just like Megan and Don before them, they were quickly briefed about the current state of affairs: they didn't know exactly how many criminals they were dealing with up here, but the investigating team had been able to figure out that Wellman had met up with two other men, probably other members of the group of kidnappers. In any case those two men were agents with the CIA and they had been in contact with John Doe as well. Prior to coming here, Don's team had tried to reach those two agents, but the CIA either didn't know where they were or they didn't want to tell them. Bottom line was that they couldn't interrogate the two of them, a 38-year-old called Daniel Rosenthal and a 36-year-old named Wayne Taccone. It was suspicious, however, that these two had been working together for nine months now, as the other team had been able to figure out in a downright war of bureaucracy.

"For nine months… that means that it could very well be the same group Charlie was with last fall," David mused.

"What are they working on?" Megan wanted to know.

"That's something the CIA wasn't willing to tell us," Jeffrey Blake replied, the leader of the team that was in charge of searching for Clifford Wellman. "Just like they weren't willing to tell us who else was part of this project. They say it doesn't have any relevance for our case."

"Maybe it does now," Colby interjected. "I mean, I don't know about you guys, but I think it's not that unlikely that those guys, whatever they're working on, used Charlie to help them, so whoever else was involved in that project is probably part of the kidnapping group."

Megan shook her head. "That's more than unlikely, Colby. Whatever they're working on, they're still working on behalf of their agency."

"Yeah, and their agency is the CIA," said David, who'd apparently decided to support his partner's theory.

"So what? Just keep your conspiracy theories to yourselves for a bit and start thinking. Can you imagine that the CIA would actually sanction the kidnapping of a well-known math professor?"

"Well, maybe –"

"This isn't helping," Don curtly interrupted Colby. He'd only listened to his colleagues' discussion with half an ear, directing his attention towards the map before him instead. It showed a more or less detailed overview of the Yellowstone National Park. If they were on the right track – and Don refused to doubt that – then Charlie was somewhere here in this vast area. They just had to find him.

"Alright," David said after a short pause. "So what do we know?"

"Right," Megan interposed, "how did you even figure out that Wellman and those other two are somewhere up here?"

"We didn't," Mitchell O'Hara said. He was a relatively young agent of Blake's team, which was completed by Karen Teeger and Juliet Disher, who were both in their late thirties. "He did."

Mitchell pointed at something – or rather, as it turned out, at _someone_ – coming up behind Don's team. The four agents turned around and for a dumbfounded moment weren't sure whether they could really trust their eyes.

Ian Edgerton was the last person they would have expected to see up here.

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Charlie's forehead was covered with sweat. Not because of exaggerated exertion. Rather because he was afraid they would find out any moment that he wasn't doing anything at all.

Sure, he was trying to give the impression of actually being willing to deliver the kind of data the CIA terrorists were asking from him. They'd given him the same assignment as last fall with the same lies, even though Charlie didn't know why they were still going to the trouble of lying to him. They had to realize that he was well aware of their unlawfulness, although they probably had still no idea how much he remembered, that his memories had increased, both in number and in depth. If Charlie wasn't mistaken, his memory was completely back now, or at least almost completely. And he was glad about that, somehow, he was. Even though there were certain memories he could have done without, and even though he realized that all those memories were of no help to him now.

For example, he remembered very well what steps he'd taken last fall in order to get the result they'd been looking for. However, he also knew that he couldn't repeat those steps now, not when he knew that his calculations would lead to the death of innocent people.

On the other hand, he couldn't retract his earlier consent either, thereby putting Amita and all the others at risk of further attacks. The mere thought of them – especially of Larry – and of the danger he was exposing them to was driving him crazy. He had to know how Larry was, he just _had_ to, but nobody would give him an answer, even though he himself had shown his willingness for cooperation.

But then again, he hadn't done more than that, for of course he hadn't provided them with any results yet, and he didn't plan on ever doing that. He was stalling for time. Until now, that had gone rather well. However, he knew that it couldn't go well forever. _Something_ had to happen, as soon as possible, he had to get out of here somehow. It didn't seem as though he'd be able to do that on his own, even though his kidnappers seemed to have slackened their safety precautions a bit since his consent; in any case he could detect no indication that he was being watched here in his 'office'. Still, he couldn't think of a way to ever get out of here without outside help. All he could hope for was for Don to finally find him, that he and his team would come and get him out of here, that all this would finally come to an end, that he'd finally find out what had happened to Larry…

Charlie knew that his hope was irrational. He knew that no one could have survived an accident like that. Still, he was hoping so much that it was just another one of their deceptions, that his kidnappers had just staged it all, that Larry was still alive. He forced himself to firmly believe in his hope. He couldn't allow himself to get broken by his guilty conscience again. This time, he had to stay strong, no matter how impossible that seemed to him, he just had to maintain a clear head.

And continue believing in his hope that Don would find him.

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With his usual nonchalance, Ian approached the small group. "Agent Eppes and his entourage!" he called out to them when he was still a couple of yards away. "Didn't you bring your math genius this time?"

The four of them were staring at him as if he came from another planet. Granted, Ian too was surprised to see them here, although he would never let that show. He was just returning from another useless scouting expedition and couldn't figure out for the life of him what Don's team was doing up here. Alright, maybe they weren't making real progress in their search for Clifford Wellman, but even if their A.D. had decided to send them reinforcements, he would have, one, told them about it, and two, not chosen a team from L.A., right? So something had to be going on, and slowly, a suspicion was awakened in Ian's head, for he couldn't miss the expression on Don's face that had ensued his greeting. _Well, shit_ , he thought while the suspicion was consolidated, _seems as though that was a fairly indiscreet question._

"What happened?" he demanded an explanation for this circus, a certain amount of alarm in his calm voice.

Don was still staring at him with this empty gaze. At his next words, it became apparent why. "Charlie's disappeared. We assume he's been kidnapped by the same people you're looking for."

It didn't happen often, but this was one of the moments in his life when Ian Edgerton didn't know how to react. Sure, at the beginning he and the mathematician hadn't really seen eye to eye, but in the end, they'd somehow managed to reconcile their very contrary opinions. They respected each other and Ian was even inclined to consider Charlie a friend – a distinction not many persons in this world could adorn themselves with.

So he just had to hope it hadn't become one person less during the past few days.

"Alright." Good. At least on the outside he could maintain his cool façade. "Details," he demanded.

Colby was assuming the task of explaining the situation to him. Too bad he started before he seemed to be clear on what to say. "Alright… so do you know that contrary to what we thought, Charlie didn't die last October?"

Ian nodded. "Of course." It was part of his job to always be up to date and he'd taken a special interest into the progress made in the case around the death of Charlie Eppes, and this particular stride of progress had filled him with more joy than all of the previous ones combined.

"Okay… But you don't seem to know that last week Monday, he was kidnapped again, probably by the same people that had held him captured last fall. At least that's what we think. We believe that the three people you're looking for belong to this group of kidnappers, Wellman, Taccone and Rosenthal. We know that since he turned up in Nebraska last November, Charlie has been watched by a nurse in their pocket. She was murdered, probably by the same group, probably because she knew too much. She had contact to one of the kidnappers, who apparently identified himself to her only as John Doe, who, in turn, has been in contact with Wellman. We found out that you're looking for him, and that up here we might also find two other guys who have been in contact with John Doe, namely Taccone and Rosenthal. And if we're lucky, they're holding Charlie captive somewhere here in the park."

Ian raised his eye-brows and looked into their faces one by one. "You would consider yourselves lucky if he was here?" he asked in his lapidary manner. "You do realize that this area is huge, don't you?"

Colby actually managed something akin to a smile. "That's why we have the best tracker of the North American continent on our team."

"Only of the North American continent? Don't insult me, Granger." Ian guessed that he was fooling no one with his mock casualness, although he wasn't sure whether they had any idea as to how worried those news made him. He did know, however, that panic wouldn't do them any good now.

"So did you find anything or not?" Don's impatience showed itself by increased irritation.

"I wouldn't say so," Ian replied matter-of-factly, but then noticed the expression on his friend's face. "Sorry, Don." He turned back to the whole group. "We've only been here for three days. It took quite some time to take up Wellman's trace and we only found out Monday that the three of them have to be hiding somewhere up here. There's even some nice video footage from one of the grocery stores in the area that proves that they're here, or at least that Taccone is. But we know that Wellman wanted to meet up here with him and Rosenthal. Unfortunately, those bastards are pretty careful. You know that two days ago, it was raining the entire day, so the earth was sodden and we should have been able to see their traces fairly easily. We searched a big area around that grocery store, but we couldn't find anything, not a single trace. It seems as though they're lying low until they consider it safe to come back out of their hiding-place."

"But how can they do that?" Colby asked. "They need food, don't they? And if I got that right, they're getting that from that grocery store, so why can't we just watch that?"

"That won't work," Blake replied. "We went through the store's security tapes of the past two weeks and we could find Taccone only once in them, that's all we could find. We assume that they pick a different grocery store each time."

"And if we simply watch all stores that come into consideration?" David asked.

"Forget it, Sinclair," Blake said. "One, I should think they stocked up pretty well on everything they need so that they have to come out as little as possible. And two, the area is just too big to cover every store that comes into consideration. You have to keep in mind that we're still looking at an area of about 130 square miles within which they may be hiding."

David frowned. "Isn't the park much bigger than that?"

"It is," Blake said, "but we tried to narrow the search area down based on the sighting of Taccone. We assumed that they would want to avoid travelling by car, thereby avoid running the risk of getting into a checkpoint, and we also assumed they would want to make the trip to and from the store within one day, so within about 14 hours at this time of year. With an average walking velocity of at most three miles per hour, considering the terrain and the length of travel time, that would give them a maximum walking distance of 42 miles per day, so we should be looking for them within a circle that has the grocery store as its center and a radius of 21 miles, which would give us an area of about 130 square miles."

Ian noticed the painful expressions on the faces of his friends, but wasn't sure whether they'd been elicited by the result Blake had confronted them with, that is by the sheer vastness of their search area, or by how much Blake's explanation reminded them of Charlie. Yet there was a big difference between Charlie's voodoo and this, because Blake's explanation was comprehensible.

"We tried to estimate the numbers relatively highly," Karen Teeger added, "the length of travel time and the walking velocity, to make sure not to exclude their hiding-place from our search area. However, we could still be wrong with our assumptions and they might be in a completely different part of the park, which would be very bad luck indeed, for the entire Yellowstone spans an area of almost 3,500 square miles. If our assumptions are right, however, they should be somewhere within this circle."

"Which still shouldn't get your hopes up," Ian warned his friends. "Technically we're still confronted with an area that is far too big to search, at least within a reasonable amount of time, that is before they decide to look for another place to stay. Besides, you should be aware that this isn't the part of the park that's preferred by those pseudo adventurer tourists. The terrain is pretty rough for the most part, there are hardly any hiking paths and it's easy to lose orientation."

"Alright," Don cut him off, apparently having heard enough bad news for one day, "so what do you say we should do now?"

Ian shrugged. "Go on with the search."

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Gradually, leaden tiredness was descending upon Charlie. The clock in his computer told him that he'd been sitting in front of the screen for eighteen hours now pretending he was doing something. Even though his mind didn't need to work much doing that, his body and his taxed nerves were still longing for rest, for sleep…

Once again, he let himself submerge in the imagination that his computer would be connected to some sort of network, any sort of network. He wouldn't have expected his kidnappers being so stupid to connect the devices they were working on to the internet, thus risking being located or hacked, but he'd still hoped to be able to get into some other network from here, into anything at all, to do at least _something_ useful. His computer, however, wasn't even connected to their internal network, and he knew why. That was the mistake they'd made last fall. They'd cut him off from the world outside, just like they were doing now, and just like now, he hadn't even known where he'd been. All the clocks had been set on Eastern Time, but Rosenthal had told him right from the start that this didn't mean anything. However, unlike this time, he'd been connected to the internal network last fall, and with some hacking tricks he'd learned from Amita, he'd been able to browse through data and files they'd never wanted him to see, data and files that had confirmed his horrible suspicions.

This time, he didn't even have access to that, so virtually all possibilities were spoilt for him. He really had no other hope but Don.


	38. Force and Freedom

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1  
 **A/N:** …and a happy new year!

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38\. Force and Freedom

Amita hesitated for a moment, her finger hovering over the call button. Should she really tell him right now? He'd been released from the hospital only this morning. She'd helped bring him home, or anyway, into Charlie's house; Alan had insisted on him staying with him and hadn't hesitated a second to expand the invitation towards her. When Don had told them about the security detail, she'd accepted, even though she wasn't sure she'd be able to sleep in Charlie's bed alone, without him. However, she was also glad that staying at his house gave her an opportunity to help Alan to take care of Larry a bit. He seemed to be needing it, he was still looking rather weary.

She wouldn't call him now. He needed to rest. There would be time for that later. Right now, she could handle things on her own, even though she felt a bit lost at the FBI without the team being around. Without Charlie.

There was another call she had to make, though.

"Yeah, Eppes?"

The connection was bad; there was a static noise, then it was suddenly better, then worse again. "Hey, Don," Amita said, a bit louder than usual, hoping he'd be able to hear her this way.

"Amita? Is that you? Did you find something?"

"I think so. We –"

"Wait a sec," Don interrupted her. There was some more static, but when he came back on the line, the connection seemed clearer. "This should be better. I'm sorry, but we're looking for the kidnappers' hiding-place, and the cell network here is a veritable disaster. So you found something?"

"Yes, I think we finally got enough data points to try again and find a match in your databases. By the way, one of the men from CalSci's security footage is identical with the man from the rental car company."

"Alright… Hold on, you said 'we'? How's Larry doing?"

"He's with your dad, resting. They released him from the hospital today."

There was a short pause at the other end and Amita thought she could hear Don breathe a sigh of relief. "That's great. Give him my best. And try checking with the data bases. The more we know about the kidnappers, the better."

"Okay, I'll do that. And… Don?"

"Yeah?"

Her heart was beating wildly and she didn't know how to phrase what she needed to say. "Will you… are you going to find Charlie?"

Again, Don didn't answer at once, but when he did, his voice sounded soothingly hopeful. "I think so, yeah." Again, he hesitated. Eventually, however, he seemed to make up his mind and let her in. "The problem is that he's been kidnapped almost two weeks ago and… well, we should find him as soon as possible."

Amita was silent as well then. Her heart, however, was still beating like crazy. It was as if it was trying to make her do something, become active, become useful. "Is there something I can do to help?"

Again, the reply came with a second of delay. "Yeah, I mean, I'm not sure. Is it possible to narrow down the search area somehow? I don't know, find spots or areas the possibility of finding them would be higher?"

"That should certainly be possible, we just need some data so we can apply some game theory," she said and thought for a second. "I just don't know how much that's going to help you, it's possible we won't be able to narrow the locations down by much."

"We'd be grateful for every indication you can give us. Just ask Rick over there and he'll make sure you'll get all the data you need, alright?"

"Okay."

"Okay then. Thanks, Amita."

Amita bit her lip, but couldn't hold herself back. "Don? Please… find him."

And again, she'd made him hesitate. "We will," he finally said. "Take care."

"You, too."

Amita ended the call and swallowed, hard. The more often she talked to Don, the clearer it became to her that this whole mess was a lot more serious and forlorn than she allowed herself to hope.

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The search had been in vain. They'd been walking for miles and miles and still hadn't been able to take a single step forward. Even worse, they had to stop the search now if they didn't want to get lost in the dark themselves.

Slowly, gradually, while he and Ian were making their way back to their log cabin headquarters, Don realized what Agent Blake had meant by the area being 'too big'. Of course he'd known before that the national park was vast, gigantic even, but he hadn't been able to imagine just how desperate their endeavor was.

Don estimated that they hadn't even gone through one percent of their search area today – and their search area was only a fracture of the park's area. Charlie might probably call it a 'hot zone'. But if in the end it turned out that their kidnappers weren't in that hot zone, that they were hiding in another part of the park – well, they could just as easily go home now and save themselves the trouble. Just that Don would never return home without his brother.

Once again, his guts felt as though someone had taken them apart and knotted them back together in a most unnatural way. What would happen if he didn't find Charlie? They'd come so far, they were so close now to cracking this case – and yet there were standing here in this gigantic park without a trace.

At this point, Don's greatest hope was that Amita – maybe even with Larry's help – might be able to somehow optimize their search. However, even though it sometimes seemed like they could, Don knew that they couldn't just pull rabbits out of their hat only because they needed them to. And even though Don knew that they would work on it relentlessly, he was also quite aware that it was going to take a while until they could deliver any results. Even then, they would probably still have a huge area to search while Charlie was counting on them to find him.

Don couldn't get rid of the feeling that he was letting him down. Sure, they were doing everything in their power – but was it enough? Don had already tried to get some backup, but they'd just had too little evidence to be on the right track to justify the workforce of more than two teams.

And if they were wrong?

Don swallowed. He noticed that he was starting shivering. What if this whole search was completely futile, if Charlie wasn't anywhere near this place? What would they do then? If they were really wrong with their suspicions, they were currently wasting their time, time they needed to spend finding Charlie. But this lead sounded so promising…

"Hey, Don, everything alright?"

Don turned his head around. Ian had come up from behind and had surprised him with a friendly, casual slap on his shoulder. Don wasn't sure whether to be grateful for Ian's casualness or be irritated by it. Of course he knew that his self-accusations and second-guessing weren't helping them. But how could Ian pretend that everything was perfectly alright?

"You know, I remember you being a bit more talkative. You're getting even more taciturn than me."

Don tried to remain calm, but that also meant that he had to swallow his anger, which reflected in the tone of his voice. "Maybe you didn't realize, but the man we're looking for is my brother."

Ian's reaction was one of mock surprise. "Clifford Wellman's your brother? I didn't know that."

Don was silent, clenching his teeth. Couldn't Ian just leave him alone? Too bad his chances that either of them would find someone else to talk to was lingering about zero. They had gone on the search in four teams of two while Megan had remained at their headquarters to hold the fort. As if four search teams would get them anywhere.

Ian made a well-measured pause before he went on, "You do realize that technically, the job of Blake's team and me is to find the kidnappers and not Charlie, right?"

Don stood abruptly, staring at Ian with unbelieving eyes. "You're kidding."

"I'm just saying. You should be careful not to lose sight of the big picture."

There was a dangerous glimmer in Don's eyes. "What exactly are you trying to tell me?"

All of a sudden, there could be no doubt left that kidding wasn't Ian's goal; he was dead serious. "I'm trying to give you some good advice, Don: don't let this case get to you."

Don shook his head. Ian was out of his mind. "Don't let it get to me? Ian – you do realize that this is about Charlie, right? So maybe you don't give a damn about him, alright, but he's still my brother! I don't think you have the slightest idea what that means."

"I think I do, maybe more than you. Look, Don – I know you're a good agent. But I also know that Charlie's your weak spot, and that's why you should be careful. You have to keep your head together, and you shouldn't ignore the possibility that we might not find him, or that we might not find him alive."

For a few seconds, the words took Don's breath away. Ian's openness was quite overwhelming at times. "So what are you saying I should do?" he asked eventually, his teeth still clenched, when he realized how well Ian was seeing through him.

"Stop blaming yourself," Ian said as though it was the simplest thing in the world.

Don shook his head again. "You really have no idea what you're talking about. Can't you see that all this is my fault?"

Ian rolled his eyes. "That's what I'm talking about, you're –"

"Stop it!" Don interrupted him. He wasn't sure where his anger emanated from, he only knew that he couldn't keep it from erupting. "Just shut your mouth and listen to me! We know that with all probability Charlie has been kidnapped by the same people that held him captive last fall, and we all know that even last fall everything had been suspicious, but what did I do? Huh, what did I do? Nothing! _Nothing,_ Ian, and there's nothing you or anyone else can say to change that! If I had looked into the matter after the notification of his death, I might have found out what was going on. But I didn't. I didn't do a thing. Do you understand what that means? I abandoned him right when he would have needed me most. If I hadn't given up on him –" Don's voice failed him. He had to take a few breaths before he could go on. "If I hadn't given up on him then, all this could never have happened."

Don was breathing heavily. It hadn't been easy for him to say this whole self-accusation out loud, to let it out in the open where it could neither be hidden nor taken back, but his anger at Ian and at himself had been a strong catalyst. Besides, what reason was there to keep himself from saying these words? There was no doubt about their horrible truth, but the fact they described would preserve its horrible truth whether or not he enunciated them. He'd abandoned Charlie. He'd accepted the notification of his death too easily although the contradictions and inconsistencies had been blatantly obvious. He'd let his brother down.

Ian, however, still didn't seem convinced. One more member in the group of illusionists who liked to ignore the obvious facts. "Well," he said, "after all, you thought he was dead."

As if that was an excuse. "But he wasn't dead," Don said. His voice was still trembling, but in his heart, a much calmer voice added, _Doesn't mean he couldn't be dead now._

Don had to swallow hard, but it didn't help much. He wasn't sure how much longer he could go on like this, remain calm on the outside. But then again, he wasn't calm on the outside. His whole body was trembling with suppressed emotions.

"Alright," Ian eventually said, sounding final. "Let's assume for argument's sake that you made a mistake last fall. Even if that's true, there's nothing you can do about it now. So how about you stop thinking about it and we come back to that when we found Charlie and his kidnappers?"

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Charlie was startled when, as if through a mist of silence, he heard noises at the door. He'd been about to fall asleep and it took him a while to realize that he wasn't in his cell but in his office, but before the realization had fully sunken in, the door had already opened and the dark-haired agent appeared in it, Dexter Johnson. He didn't look happy.

"Get up!" he ordered curtly.

Charlie could feel nausea arise, and in combination with his trembling knees and the heat in his head, it felt a bit as though he had a fever. Or maybe just the physical effects of a fright, maybe of stage fright, for if his premonitions were correct, he'd soon have to give his opponents another performance of his ignorance and naivety.

As soon as Charlie reached the door, the dark-haired agent grabbed him harshly at his upper arms. After all these days in captivity, those spots had been affected so much that he felt as though he would never get rid of the bruises.

He was led back into the interrogation room and left alone with Rosenthal. It was only then, when he saw the usual water, bread, ham and cheese sitting on the table, that he realized how hungry he was. They'd given him water when he had started his work, but it had been over a day since he'd last eaten. His stomach was rumbling. But that, it occurred to him, could just as easily be caused by his fright.

"Sit down!" Rosenthal ordered just as curtly as his colleague. He too didn't seem very happy.

Charlie obeyed. Without being able to resist the urge, his hand jerked towards the food, but Rosenthal's voice stopped his movement abruptly. "Don't even think about it. You won't eat until you give us some results."

Charlie swallowed. "I'm working on it," he lied. His voice was trembling slightly and thus, he didn't sound even half as convincing as it would have been necessary.

"Stop lying!" Rosenthal snapped at him, slamming his hand on the table. Charlie flinched. At the same time, a memory flashed through him, only for the fracture of a second: Don, standing there in front of a faceless suspect, slamming his hand on the table, shouting at the other man with a voice that imposed authority…

"Stop trying to fool us, Eppes," Rosenthal cut the memory short. "Do you really think we don't realize what you're doing? You're stalling for time! But that won't work, Eppes. Either you give us the first location tonight or you can say good-bye to your pretty girlfriend. We warned you, we're not just playing around."

Charlie was shivering. The more heated Rosenthal's furious clamor became, the colder he felt.

"I… I need more time," he stuttered.

The eruption wasn't unexpected, and still Charlie flinched violently. "We won't give you more time! Just get the job done, Eppes, you started that algorithm last fall, just go ahead and finish it!"

"I… I can't. I… I don't know what you're talking about." He felt hot now, albeit only in his head. It had occurred to him the fracture of a second too late that according to what his opponents believed, he couldn't remember a thing about last fall. "I can't give you an algorithm that fast."

"Oh right! And why's that?!"

"I don't…" And suddenly, the stutter was gone, because there was no need to lie anymore. "I can't go on like this!" the words burst out of him. "I can't keep doing this, I'm beat, I'm hungry, I need to sleep…" He was about to add that he'd been their captive for several days now, but he didn't find words to explain that to this bastard. Maybe, however, it was self-preservation that kept him from saying it.

Rosenthal stared into his eyes, and if Charlie hadn't been filled with desperate anger as well, he would have surely averted his gaze. The look in Rosenthal's eyes was piercing and hostile, and for a brief moment, Charlie was filled with relief that looks couldn't really kill you.

Eventually, Rosenthal turned away from him and went up and down behind the table. "Very well," the terrorist said when he had apparently calmed down. "Very well. You may sleep." Charlie could hear the 'but' even before Rosenthal said it, "But you have to give us results."

Charlie's breathing was still quickened while he tried to think of a way how to get out of this dilemma, when he was unexpectedly granted a little more time. Steps could be heard on the outside, quick steps, leading towards them.

The door was jerked open and the youngest member of their team entered – at least the youngest one that Charlie had seen so far. He seemed upset. Charlie, whose nerves had been oversensitive the whole time anyway, pricked up his ears even more. Something must have happened. The only question was, was that good for him or bad?

"What now, Mike?" Rosenthal impatiently snapped at his colleague.

Charlie made a mental note. So this was Mike. The hacker. During the past couple of days, his memory and the interrogations had fed him with enough information to allow him to paint a rough picture of the group of his kidnappers. Too bad all the information he gathered didn't help him much. On the contrary. The only reason they were so unreserved with information around him could be that they didn't believe that their captive would be able to forward the information to someone else.

"They're here," Mike burst out and Charlie's not very optimistic train of thoughts came to a sudden stop. "They're looking for us, here, in the park."

For the first time, Charlie thought he could recognize something like fear in Rosenthal's eyes. "What?" he said, alarmed. "Who? Who's looking for us?"

"His brother." He gave Charlie a short nod without looking at him. If he'd deigned a look at him, he couldn't have missed the frenzied glimmer of hope in his eyes. "Dexter heard it from one of his contacts. Eppes and his team are here. They joined another team and since Wayne and Dexter have been to California and the brother and his team probably know better than that other team what's going on, their chances –"

"Shut up!" Rosenthal interrupted him indignantly. "I have to think."

Not just Mike, but Charlie too were waiting anxiously for whatever result that short meditation would yield. Luckily, they didn't have to wait for long. "Tell the others to go and stock up with provisions, but tell them to go outside the park so that they won't attract attention. We'll have to be a bit more invisible for a couple of days than we've been so far. And tell them to spread out," Rosenthal ordered and Mike left.

Charlie tried to stay as calm as he could, to arouse Rosenthal's attention as little as possible, while his heart was leaping with tension and tentative joy. They were here! Don was here! And it could only be a matter of time until they would find him!

On the other hand… what if they didn't find him? If Charlie had gotten that right, there was another team that had been searching for the kidnappers for some time now. They hadn't been successful. Thus, his kidnappers' hiding-place seemed to be rather good. Maybe it would be too good for Don as well…?

Charlie's heart was still beating with a painful velocity when he realized he had to do something. He couldn't just wait and hope that Don would find him, he couldn't run the risk of things going wrong, not now that the rescue was so imminent. He had to become active himself somehow, had to make some kind of contribution to his liberation…

It was a flash of inspiration. Charlie's eyes fell upon the dangerously looking knife on the table in front of him, right between the bread and cheese, and it seemed as though his plan was already made and had always been made, as though he'd only waited for this opportunity to put it into action. The hiding-place was abandoned. Only Rosenthal and Mike were left behind. Two opponents whom he could probably take on without having to abandon every hope of success. He had to try.

The heat in his head was back with a vengeance when Charlie played out the plan in his mind. He was feeling jittery. _Adrenaline_ , he told himself, _that's all this is, just adrenaline…_

Mike returned to the interrogation room.

"They're gone," he told Rosenthal, and in Charlie's crazed gaze, he had some strange similarity with an agitated question mark, with a confused bundle of nerves that was cluelessly waiting for further orders.

"Alright," said Rosenthal, who seemed as calm as his accomplice seemed agitated. "Take him back to his cell," he then ordered him with a curt nod in Charlie's direction. "We'll deal with him later."

Charlie wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean, but he didn't really care. Everything that mattered now was the right timing. And following through. Once he decided to act, there would be no going back, and no time for second thoughts. If there was one thing he'd learned from being around Don and his team, it was the realization that a moment's hesitation at the wrong time could cost you your life.

The tiredness, the exhaustion were gone now. All his senses were sharpened. In fact, Charlie was as tense as he'd hardly ever been before while at the same time, he tried not to let that show as he watched Mike coming towards him. Now he was standing next to him, he bent down slightly and grabbed him under his left shoulder in an attempt to pull him up. This was the moment, the moment to act.

Before the terrorists knew what was going on, Charlie had grabbed the knife from the table in front of him, wound his left arm around Mike's neck and, with his right hand, put the knife against his throat.

Charlie was breathing heavily. Mike, too. Rosenthal didn't seem to be breathing at all. It was apparent that he would have never dreamt of such a change in the balance of power. Worse, he was used to everything going according to plan, according to the rules he himself had set up.

Charlie was a bit startled by his own bravado. He hadn't really believed that he would actually manage to do this. Now however, when he saw and felt his opponents' reactions, he felt a little more at ease, more secure. He'd actually done it, and the moment of surprise was still working in favor of him.

He was still breathing heavily and kept wishing his heart would stop that painfully vehement beating when he realized that he had to follow through; he couldn't allow himself to lose the moment of surprise.

"Stay back, against the wall," he told Rosenthal because it was the first thing he could think of. He had to be careful. He couldn't lose control of the situation, but his position wasn't optimal. His footing wasn't very firm, he was standing a little twisted between the table, the chair and his hostage, and if the hacker made a sudden movement, they would probably both go down. He couldn't let that happen.

With some relief, Charlie watched Rosenthal comply with his order and retreat to the wall that was opposite the door. Now, he was at a sufficient distance and Mike was still sufficiently startled so that Charlie could dare kicking the chair out of his way – without letting either of them out of his sight, of course.

Now, his way was clear, and Charlie dragged Mike with him to the interrogation room's steel door. His memory from the times they'd led him in here was confirmed: this was a safety lock. A safety lock with a missing key.

"Where's the key?'"

Nobody answered. In Rosenthal's eyes, Charlie saw a hatred that made shudders run down his spine. He couldn't lose his nerves, however, not now. He had to follow this through. Everything else would be suicide.

"Where's the key! Answer me, or I'll cut his throat!"

Some seconds of tense silence passed. Desperation had made his words forceful, but they were establishing an appearance of resolution Charlie didn't really feel. He was hoping fervently that Rosenthal was going to give him an answer, because he had no idea what he was supposed to do if he didn't. He only knew that killing the man in his power wasn't an option.

Eventually, Rosenthal dipped his hand in his trouser pocket.

"Don't make a wrong move!" Charlie warned him.

But Rosenthal just gave him another look full of hatred before he slowly pulled out a thin key ring and then, with admirably calm hands, removed one of the keys from the ring and held it up demonstratively.

"Put it on the table," Charlie ordered. Rosenthal complied.

Charlie waited until Rosenthal was back in his corner before he shoved himself and Mike slowly to the table. "Take it."

Mike did as he was told. Slowly, they retreated to the door. Charlie was thinking feverishly. This had to work, he had to make sure it would work…

They were standing at the open door now, but still inside the interrogation room. "Try if it fits and if the door can be locked," Charlie told his hostage.

This was a delicate part. While Mike, still in Charlie's grip, turned the key around in the lock of the open door, Charlie had to keep both him and Rosenthal in sight. But it worked. And the key fit.

Charlie felt a great urge to breathe a sigh of relief, but he knew it was too early for that. "Turn it back and leave it in the lock," he told Mike, who, despite his trembling hands, actually managed to comply so that the door could now be closed again.

Charlie retreated further, Mike still in his grip, until they stood on the threshold. Rosenthal was at a distance of only a couple of yards, but it had to be enough. Charlie took one last deep breath and forced himself not to pay any attention to the trembling of his body. Then, with a swift movement, he withdrew the knife from Mike's neck and, almost simultaneously, pushed him away from himself with all the force he could muster. Mike staggered forward, but Charlie hardly paid attention to him. He pulled the door shut and turned the key around. His kidnappers were locked in.

Still trembling, Charlie leaned against the door and took some deep breaths. However, he knew that he couldn't allow himself to lose too much time. He knew that the other CIA terrorists had left the hiding -place, but he had no idea when they would be back.

He hurried through the underground corridors, opening every door he passed. The toilet, an office, another office, some kind of torture chamber, a control room...

Charlie stood abruptly. He thought his heart had stopped beating. A control room. Made for surveillance. Surveillance with GPS signals. From here, GPS signals were monitored. And he too was sending out one of those signals, he'd almost forgotten about that! This damn signal would have thwarted his last attempted escape last fall if he only had come so far, and he couldn't let it happen again. He had to eliminate the possibility of them tracking him, he had to get rid of the GPS signal somehow, had to…

All of a sudden, Charlie realized that he was still holding the knife in his hand. It was trembling. He couldn't lose his head now, though. He had to keep calm. There was only one possibility, so he didn't hesitate, but just took the knife and swiftly cut his left arm open. He remembered where they had inserted the chip, it had been somewhere near his wrist. He didn't find it at once, but after a couple of seconds, his fingers felt solid, artificial material which certainly didn't belong in his arm. Despite his trembling fingers, it took only another couple of seconds until the chip was out. Charlie let it fall on the floor and crushed it underneath his foot.

He briefly thought if there was another possibility for his kidnappers to trace him, but since he didn't have anything with him, he couldn't see one. Only when he looked down at himself and saw his bleeding arm, it occurred to him that they might follow the blood trail he would leave behind. He had to find something to fix that, anything to…

A moment later, he stood in the underground toilet and wrapped some toilet tissue around his wrist. This had to do. Now, there was no more reason for hesitation.

Within few seconds, he'd found the exit, a steel door like all the others, just that this one didn't lead into another office or an interrogation room, but into the brisk, cool night.

He was free.


	39. Fighting Nature

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1

* * *

39\. Fighting Nature

Charlie's adrenaline level was still ranging in astronomical heights as he stood before the hiding-place in an attempt to first of all get an overview both of his situation and his position. He was in an open space; there were trees around him, but he seemed to be standing in some kind of small, natural clearing. Only the terrorists' dugout was anything but natural. It seemed to have been built some time ago, for it was overgrown and not really visible, at least not at night.

Charlie wondered where his other kidnappers might be. He was certain that it would be a wise decision to turn into the opposite direction. The bad thing was that he had no idea where that might be.

 _In any case I have to get away from here,_ he eventually pushed himself. For the further away he distanced himself from this hiding-place, the more he increased the area where they had to look for him, and the less likely it became that he met one of his kidnappers.

Thus he set off, and in a direction where the scrubs weren't overly thick. He hadn't been able to see a trail, but even if he had, he certainly wouldn't have taken it – the risk of stumbling right back into enemy hands was too great. On the other hand, he also avoided thick scrubs, because it would not just make it that much harder to get through them, but also that much easier for potential followers to track him.

The farther he walked into the night, away from the two kidnappers in the dugout, the more his adrenaline faded away. His left forearm started making its presence felt in a most unpleasant manner. The cut at his wrist was burning and throbbing, but that problem was merely annoying and far less serious than the problem of his disorientation. After all, the arteries weren't damaged; the wound was only inconvenient and a little painful, not dangerous, at least not as long he managed not to sustain blood poisoning on top of everything else.

The situation with his orientation was much more gloomy, literally. Unfortunately, Charlie had never learned orienting himself by the stars, but even if he had, that probably wouldn't have been of much help to him in his current situation. For even if he managed to figure out where exactly the various cardinal directions were – of course he could always get an approximation going by the North Star – that would be of no use to him as long as he had no idea where he was.

His mind went back to the conversation he'd been able to overhear in the dugout. _They're here. They're looking for us, here, in the park._ In the park… probably Mike had been talking about a national park, because to Charlie the area had little resemblance with a city park. And it was perfect. Nobody would ever find their underground hiding-place in a vast area like this.

So they were looking for him. Too bad they were looking for him from two opposite sides. On the one side, there were his rescuers, who didn't seem to have any other clue but this gigantic park, and on the other side, there were his pursuers, who knew exactly where to start their search, namely in the spot where he'd escaped. Therefore, his goal had to be to mislead them and shake them off while at the same time trying to draw the FBI's attention onto him. How on earth was he supposed to do that?

First of all, he had to get as far away from his former prison as possible. Then he'd take it from there. For one thing was certain, he had better chances of getting out of here with the help of Don and his team. Since his kidnappers would surely be looking for him, he had to avoid big trails and stay hidden, and therefore it would be difficult to find his way back to civilization without them – before his kidnappers got to him, and before exposure got the better of him. But how should he tell Don and the others where he was and in which direction he was heading without risking that this information fell into the wrong hands?

He thought hard. The FBI might be conducting their search not just on the ground, but also from the sky, with a helicopter, to cover more ground in less time. Charlie was hoping fervently that they would be searching from the air, for if they did, he already had an idea.

Suddenly, the ground before Charlie exploded and he jumped back, startled. Something was whistling in his ears. He could feel something like stitches from thin needles everywhere on his skin. But why should there be needles here? _Water_ , Charlie realized, _it's water!_ After some further moments, there was no doubt left: in front of him, only about a dozen steps ahead of him, water was sputtering from the ground.

For a couple of seconds, Charlie was so dumbfounded that it took a while until he realized what he was seeing, or rather hearing: a geyser. In any case the tense nerves under his skin told him that the water coming from this natural fountain – or maybe rather from the water bomb – in front of him was hot. Now, given that he was in a 'park', the FBI was apparently looking for them with two teams on site and there were geysers here, there was only one place Charlie could be, if he wasn't mistaken: the Yellowstone National Park.

However, wherever he was, in any case it seemed like a wise decision to put his current location in his back and circumvent this area spaciously. In the darkness, he didn't consider it very advisable to walk across a mine field of boiling waterspouts, for he didn't really feel like standing directly above such a miniature vulcano at its next eruption.

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When Amita took up the file and thereby managed to break her coffee cup, she was close to tears. She didn't care about the cup. She cared quite a lot about everything else though, and the pressure she was under was hardly bearable anymore. She was tired, she was a nervous wreck, nothing she tried would go smoothly, she made one mistake upon another, was becoming clumsy, couldn't bring about anything – and they still hadn't found Charlie.

Amita swallowed down the tears, but her anger and desperation remained. She just didn't want this anymore, it was all useless anyway…

"Don't you want to clean up those shards?"

Amita whirled around and it was a small miracle that she didn't whip her laptop off the desk with that movement. This late in the evening, she wouldn't have expected to see Larry here, especially since she'd thought he'd still be resting. Nonetheless, she was glad that he was here, because despite his tendency to lose himself in the depths of his own mind, he always emanated a calm she was currently in dire need of.

"Of course," she hastily replied when she realized what he'd said. While she was picking up the larger shards, she became a little calmer. It was only a cup, after all. It was no big deal, something like that could happen to anybody.

Larry gingerly stepped closer to her laptop and examined her work. From down the floor, Amita glanced at him. Larry still seemed pale and could hardly hold himself upright if he wanted to avoid the pain, but he was here, and somehow, his sheer presence made Amita feel better. During the past few days, she had realized what an immense burden it could be to work on such a delicate project. Especially if it involved the man that she loved.

"This isn't the facial recognition analysis," Larry stated, still looking at the running program.

Amita shook her head. "I was done with that this afternoon," she informed him. "I couldn't reach Don after the comparison with the databases, but I called that Agent Blake from the other team and he told me to forward the information to them. I think they already put an APB out for them."

"So the analysis actually gave a result?"

Amita nodded. "Yes. The men that took Charlie with them are Dexter Johnson and Wayne Taccone; they're both really with the CIA."

Larry puckered his forehead. "But this wasn't an arrest…"

"No," Amita confirmed. "It was an abduction."

She turned away from him. She wouldn't have believed she would be capable of such feelings, but since Charlie's kidnappers had finally gotten a name and a history, she felt such a hatred towards them that it actually hurt. The powerlessness, the fact that they couldn't get to them because they'd gone into hiding, only reinforced those feelings.

"Amita…" She looked up and noticed that her colleague had been watching her. "You should go home now and get a good night's sleep."

She shook her head vehemently. "I can't," she reminded him and couldn't believe that he would even propose such a thing. They were so close now! Charlie _had_ to be somewhere in that area, there was hardly any other possibility! They finally had to find him now, they couldn't just give up now that they were so close to their goal.

Larry sighed and fell silent. "So what is this?" he asked eventually, pointing at her laptop.

"I tried to optimize the search. But I don't have enough data."

Larry took a closer look at the program. "You're starting from the locations where the kidnappers have been spotted?"

"Exactly. But those aren't many. And even if we could be sure that these locations I used are all correct, we still don't know how far away they're from their hiding-place. It could be just as easily five miles as fifty."

Larry nodded. "You considered the ground conditions?"

"Yes, but that doesn't help much. Most of the area in question is forest, and it seems as though all places are equally likely."

Larry nodded heavily. He too couldn't think of anything else.

"Wouldn't you say that it would be more efficient to get some rest now and come back tomorrow with fresh eyes?" he finally proposed. "I'm sure we'll be able to think of something then."

Amita was anything but convinved. "And if we won't?"

"Then it's highly unlikely that we would be able to think of something tonight."

Amita shook her head. "How can you be so calm about this?" she mumbled, but Larry had difficulty hearing anything other than the desperation in her voice.

He didn't answer at once. It wasn't like he wasn't afraid. He was scared beyond measure. However, he knew that his mind wasn't working well under the influence of panic and thus, he wouldn't be able to help Charles if he let it take over. Therefore, they had to keep the problem away from them, had to consider it from some sort of safety distance if they wanted to solve it and find him. To be sure, it wasn't easy. However, it was necessary, so he did his best.

Always hoping that his best would be enough.

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Charlie was cold. For April or May (after the days in captivity, he couldn't be sure which), it was terribly cold and it seemed to him more like December or January, and his thin jacket wasn't doing much to keep the cold away from him. Maybe it was because he wasn't used to the spring nights up here in the North, but the ones in southern California. In any event, he was shivering almost as much as the twigs of the trees around him, while he made his way through the dark a little too swiftly, considering the current lighting conditions.

The desire to get back home became unbearingly strong within him, especially since he felt as though he hadn't been home since his assignment last fall. For the days prior to his 'arrest' had been overshadowed so much by his amnesia and his insecurity in dealing with the people close to him that feelings of home and comfort hadn't had a chance of emerging. Even though he was filled with fear that his kidnappers might catch up with him, his velocity was caused more by his longing to see them all again, all of them, including Larry…

On the next few yards, the fear tightened his throat and he actually had to stop to catch his breath. What if something had happened to Larry after all? If his kidnappers hadn't lied, if the picture in the newspaper had been real…

With new determination, he continued his way, even faster than before. He didn't just need to run from his kidnappers, but also from the insecurity. He just had to find out how Larry was, now.

Suddenly, there was a gurgling sound. He turned slightly to the right. Yes, it became louder this way. After some yards, Charlie was sure that there was a creek here somewhere, but he couldn't see anything. The night was dark and to make matters worse, the trees of the forest were forming a thick roof above his head.

Charlie slowed down his pace and continued listening to the noises of the darkness. He was getting closer to the creek, closer still –

"Ah!"

He hadn't been able to suppress a small, startled cry when his foot had slipped and landed into icecold water. Using his other leg that was still on the bank, Charlie tried to push himself out, but it didn't work at the first try – the height difference was too great – and when he tried a second time, he halted. The water of which he'd thought at first it was coming directly from the Arctic Ocean was in reality hot, almost boiling hot, so hot that it had fooled his nerves for a moment.

When Charlie's footing was steady enough so that he could have pushed himself up, he noticed two things: one, the water wasn't nearly as hot as he'd feared once he'd gotten used to it, and two, this creek was giving him a perfect opportunity to throw his persuers off his trail.

For a second, Charlie just stood there, getting used to the water and wondering what he should do. Eventually, he turned upstream, against the flow, since he would have proceeded much more easily down the stream and he hoped that his persuers would also realize that and draw the wrong conclusions.

Only few steps along on the stony ground, Charlie's shoes started bothering him. They were more or less worn out tennis shoes that had been soaked with water in a matter of seconds and were now hanging at his feet like bricks. Besides, he had apparently ripped them open somewhere on his flight, for the sole of his left shoe was only half attached to the upper material. In an impromptu decision, he pulled them off his feet and continued his way barefooted, but after only a couple of yards, he stood again. Not because it would have been overly painful, it wasn't more uncomfortable than in those holey shoes. He had an idea, though. His shoes could help him hiding his true direction from his pursuers. For one, he wouldn't leave a footprint this way, hoping that a print of his bare feet would be more difficult to detect, and two, he could try to fool them again.

He went back to the spot where he'd entered the creek and then some yards further downstream. Then he laid the shoes on the ground next to him, covering them half-heartedly with some rocks and sticks. He was sure that if the CIA terrorists managed to follow him this far, they would soon find them, but then again, that was the point. It was one more clue to make them believe he had gone in this direction.

When he had accomplished his task, he turned around and set off upstream. Wading through the stony creek wasn't a walk in the park and soon, Charlie moved from the knee-deep side to the middle of the creek that more and more turned out to be a stream. Here, the water went up to his chest, so his advance was a bit slower, but at least, the water carried most of his weight so that his feet weren't that much bothered by the stones anymore. Still, Charlie was quite sure he'd already ripped them open; in any event, the soles of his feet and his ankles were stinging. However, he didn't stop to take a look at them. He had to go on. They couldn't find him. He couldn't allow himself to be captured again. He had to go on…

He stayed in the water for a long time. He didn't want to let himself be fooled into thinking he had travelled a great distance just because he'd taken a long time. He knew that his pursuers would take far less time to search the ground at the brink of the creek in an attempt to find the spot where he'd step out of the water. Now, he started wondering if it hadn't been better after all to go downstream, he could have drifted with the stream and wouldn't have needed to fight against it. Still, he was hoping that that was exactly what his kidnappers expected him to do.

After several hours, he got out of the creek. He chose a rocky spot so that they wouldn't find his footprints in the soft soil. After the nice, warm water, the nocturnal air was displeasingly cool. And even though by now he was almost certain that it was May, spring up here evidently meant something different than spring in California.

He stood. For a second, he couldn't go on. The thought of home had given him a painful stab at his heart. He thought of Los Angeles, of Pasadena, of his home, his neighborhood, the ocean, of the familiar surroundings and buildings…

Of the familiar people.

With new determination, Charlie continued his barefooted hike through the wilderness of the Yellowstone National Park.


	40. Reserves

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1  
 **A/N:** Sorry for the wait, I'm currently living in separation from my friend, the internet, but there's good news: it seems as though we'll get back together soon. As always, I'll try to update within a week. Hope you enjoy.

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40\. Reserves

When finally morning began to dawn, Charlie was optimistic to have put sufficient distance between him and his pursuers and to have sufficiently thrown them off. As soon as he would be out of the forest, he would give the other search party, the one that was friendly towards him, a first sign.

He only hoped that he hadn't already given a sign to the search party that was hostile towards him. When some time after his walk through the stream, his wrist had started throbbing again, he had had to realize that his makeshift toilet tissue bandage had been gone. He didn't know when that had happened, but he hoped that his pursuers wouldn't find the bandage somewhere in the water of the creek or anywhere where it could help them find his trace again. He had another problem, though: he had no bandage anymore. True, the wound wasn't bleeding strongly, but it was still open.

 _Who cares_ , Charlie told himself. _You have to think about more important things right now. You have to figure out how to establish contact with the team._

Through the trees ahead of him, he could already see a clearing that would have served his purpose perfectly, but that was when it started raining. At first, he didn't even notice, for the forest was like a roof above his head, but when the first raindrops hit him, he decided to wait with his one-sided attempt of establishing contact with the world outside and to go on walking for another bit. The rain was very welcome to him, even though it drenched him so that the morning didn't bring with it the warmth he'd been hoping for, but humidity and damp cold. However, it also erased the traces he'd left behind. He probably could have put his plan into action in the rain all the same, but he decided that he didn't want to destroy the opportunity the rain provided him with by telling his pursuers that he'd been here. Not yet. He'd first bring another couple of miles between them and himself.

When a couple of hours later, the rain finally stopped, Charlie walked a little further until he reached a spot that was perfect for his plan. He looked around and under a rock overhang, he detected some stones that had luckily remained dry. Then, he spread two of them and some of the wet stones in his immediate surroundings on the ground so that they formed the Greek letter п.

It wasn't very accurate and neither was it very big, maybe four times four yards, but Charlie was sure it could be recognized and he hoped it could be seen and deciphered for what it was from the sky as well. It was a realistic hope, for if they were looking for the CIA terrorists' hiding-place, they might use a helicopter, and if they did, they would fly relatively closely to the ground. Once they found a small п in a national park, they would certainly not consider it a natural phenomenon, but the work of a human being, more precisely of a mathematician. In any event Charlie hoped that Don would understand the clue and that this п and the ones that would follow would serve their purpose and lead the team towards him.

But of course, Charlie didn't just leave a stony п behind. He carved a small drawing in both of the dry stones he'd carried over here onto the clearing, which however, could only be seen from close distance. That wasn't too bad though, for Charlie hoped that once they would have found the stony п, they would examine it more closely. And he hoped that they would be able to decipher his message. But Amita and Larry could do it, he knew that and he trusted that they would be helping on the search.

With an arrow at the edgeless end of which he wrote an x, he indicated a Cartesian coordinate system. He hoped that people who felt less at home in the world of mathematics wouldn't know what they were looking at and assume that the arrow pointed in the direction Charlie would be headed. That was why Charlie made sure that the arrow pointed into a direction that seemed rather welcoming to him and didn't stop in front of a solid wall after only a couple of yards.

He would turn into another direction, of course. However, he was going to tell Amita and Larry this direction in a less obvious way.

At first, he noted the date in the upper right corner of the stone, July 3, 2006. That day, he'd worked on an algorithm for Don that had served to apprehend an escaped convict. He remembered it perfectly, it had been the day before Independence Day, and more importantly: he perfectly remembered the algorithm they'd employed.

It hadn't been anything special, pure and simple game theory, at bottom. He'd only needed to add some variables and that was what had made the algorithm so complex. And those variables were exactly what he needed now.

He would communicate his direction to them by giving them a position vector. The origin was given by the x of his more or less disguised x-axis; the other axes could be complemented going from that. He didn't need the third axis, the z-axis, but in another attempt to throw his unwanted pursuers off, he inserted an expression nonetheless – but he made sure that once the variable was inserted, the expression equaled zero, and thus his position vector was in plane with the ground. This way, his vector was ultimately determined by only two directions, given by the x- and the y-coordinate. The expressions he inserted here were also depending on variables he'd used in the algorithm last summer so that now, he had his vector complete and could write it next to his disguised x-axis, three expressions one below the other, all within two brackets.

All Charlie had to do now was maintaining the direction he'd given them as accurately as possible, and this he was going to manage with a triangle. Instead of following the hypotenuse, the direction his position vector pointed him to (an invisible direction, since all that could be seen of his coordinate system was the x-axis), he'd first walk 92 steps following the visible x-axis, for 92 was what his first expression equaled. Then he'd make a left-turn of 90 degrees and then walk along the second leg of his triangle, namely 59 steps along the y-axis, since his second expression equaled 59. By looking back toward his п from there and extending the line he'd walked, he should be able to maintain the right direction more or less accurately.

In order to prevent the rain from erasing his message, he copied the information on the back of the stone and repeated the procedure with the other stone he'd carried onto the clearing. He carved the x-axis once more into the softened soil before he laid the stones on top, just to be on the safe side, always trying to change the direction of the x-axis as little as possible. Those should be enough safety measures.

When he was done, he looked at his work with satisfaction. He was confident that only Amita and Larry would be able to decipher his code, even though it was a trivial one, mathematically. However, no member of the CIA would know which algorithm he'd employed last year on July 3.

Even though it had taken him less than twenty minutes to build the п and carve in the necessary information, he was anxious to go on. After all, he didn't feel like meeting his opponents ever again, definitely not alone in this wilderness.

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"Why haven't we been told earlier?" Don asked upset when Ian told him the news in their log cabin headquarters early in the morning.

Ian raised his eye-brows. "I thought you were busy with Charlie's abduction and Wellman was our case?"

"You know just as well as I do that those two cases are connected! Where is he?"

In the early hours of the morning, one of their suspects, Wayne Taccone, had been apprehended at a gas station some miles away from the park. The APBs on him and his three accomplices Wellman, Johnson and Rosenthal had been put out only the previous afternoon and nobody would have expected such a quick success.

"He's in a detention cell in Ennis. Blake and his team just went there."

"And you didn't?" Colby interposed before his boss could vent his spleen.

Ian shrugged. "Someone has to hold the fort here, right?"

"Not me," Don decided, grabbed his jacket and was just about to leave the cabin when Ian's voice held him back.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Eppes."

Don turned around. There stood his colleague, self-reliant as he'd always been, his arms crossed before his chest and his upper body leaning slightly behind as if he was about to give him a real dressing-down. Maybe he was.

"Do you really think Taccone is going to tell you something he won't tell Blake and his team?" he said. "I thought you were trying to find Charlie."

"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

Ian threw a radio to him. "That you should better make yourself useful."

While Don was still staring at the radio, Ian walked past him out of the cabin in the slowly abating rain. "One of you should stay here," he called over his shoulder, "in case your geek team actually manages to conjure up a plan where we should look. And everyone else should be careful; the ground is dangerously slippery because of the rain, and I think we've got enough on our hands with trying to rescue one guy."

Since Don still hadn't moved from his spot, Ian halted and turned around. "What now, Eppes? Are you coming or am I supposed to search your brother on my own?"

It really didn't take anything else to set Don moving.

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In the picture, everything was perfectly alright. A happy family on their vacation, all of them sun-burnt, all of them smiling into the camera, all of them having fun. Perfect happiness. The photo, however, didn't show what had remained of that.

His wife was dead. She might have had a fulfilled life despite her illness, and most of the times she hadn't railed against her fate, but that didn't change anything about the fact that they had lost her far too soon. And just when Alan had learned to deal with the pain, just when he'd fought his way back into a life-worthy life, it had been Charlie's turn.

With his finger, Alan gently stroked the glass of the picture frame, his thumb caressing the heads of his two boys. Don had put an arm around his little brother under which Charlie was ducking his head a bit. He couldn't be older than nine or ten in the picture, but even then, Don hadn't just been his big brother, but also his role model. His hero, the one he looked to for protection.

Alan sighed. Where had he gone wrong? And what on earth was he doing here? Why was he leaving it to one of his sons to find the other one while he himself was sitting here at home, sitting on his hands?

He swallowed, but he couldn't keep the tears from spilling. This time, his thumb caressed his eldest's head. How had he been able to put this burden on Don? How had he dared to force him to be the strong one of the two of them? He was his father, damn it, and it was his damn duty to act like one!

He tried imagining what Don was doing right now. He'd told him they were following a promising lead in the Yellowstone National Park. Alan, however, knew the dimensions of that park only too well to harbor too much hope.

In front of his inner eye, he could see Don giving commands, grouping them for the search, perfectly playing his role as a team leader. And he could see him at night, alone, a picture of misery sitting on his bed, his upper body bent slightly forward, his head bent down. Alan knew how bad Don was at accepting defeat and he knew what it would do to him if something happened to his little brother, even now when both of them had grown up. Since to Don, everything looked as though he was both about to having to accept defeat in his search and letting Charlie down, that couldn't be good for him. And yet it was him, Alan, who was letting his sons down, both of them.

His thoughts and his thumb strayed back to Charlie. He wondered how he might be doing? Alan couldn't imagine what his youngest was going through right now, and he didn't want to. Was he held captive? Maybe even put under some kind of pressure? Maybe even…

Alan was cold and nausea took a hold of him. He forbade himself to think about that any longer. He just wanted to have them both with him again, he just couldn't go on like this, sitting here, doing nothing… Multiple times during the last couple of days, he'd been about to just pack his bags and help Don, but every time his attempt was stopped short in time when he realized (or when Millie made him realize) that he would probably be more of a burden than a help. That was the last thing he wanted.

Still, he could hardly bear his own inactiveness. He thought the feeling would tear him apart from inside, making him bleed to a slow and agonizing death. But for now, he could take it, and if his sons could hold out as well for a little while longer, he wouldn't be the one of them to wilt first.

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Charlie was about to wilt. By now, it was late afternoon, and two further пs had followed his first one. He had decided to use another algorithm for those two, considering it smarter to make it as hard for the CIA terrorists to crack the code as he could. One could never be too careful.

However, his reserves were spent. He'd been walking through this park since last night, always accompanied by the fear of his pursuers in his back. He didn't even remember when he'd last slept, it felt like ages. He just wanted to lie down, to rest…

Out of nowhere, an image appeared in front of his inner eye: Larry, covered in blood, pale, lifeless… Charlie swallowed. This image couldn't be true. There must have been a mistake somewhere, Larry hadn't had an accident, they'd lied to him…

But he couldn't be sure, not until he saw Larry in front of his real eyes, alive and safe and sound. Therefore, he had to go on, he just had to go on, on and on, until he'd be home…

The thought of Larry kept him going for another mile or so, but by then, he'd reached the end of his tether for good. There was no other way, he had to give himself some rest despite the danger of being apprehended by his opponents and although he felt exposed to the dangers of his surroundings in the light of the late afternoon sun.

He'd planned to build another п, but he couldn't. He just didn't have any strength left. Besides, it occurred to him that it would be much more advisable to build the п once he got going again.

He retreated into a part of the forest where the undergrowth was a bit thicker. Here, he didn't feel quite so exposed. He let himself sink against a tree and closed his eyes. He'd planned to take a look at the wounds on his wrist and on his feet, but his eye-lids were too heavy to open them again. Once again, he thought of all the people he drew his strength from before exhaustion got the better of him and he fell asleep.

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Don and Ian reached the log cabin when darkness descended upon them. Don's mood was dangerously close to a new low. All that was left to him was a glimmer of hope that the other team might have gotten some information from the kidnappers, more than they'd forwarded them by radio. For the information they'd received during their search had been only partially uplifting. True, also Clifford Wellman, the FBI agent who had gone into hiding, and Dexter Johnson from the CIA had been apprehended now, but the fourth man they had an APB out on, Daniel Rosenthal, was still on the loose. To make matters worse, it probably wouldn't take much longer until he realized that something was off, and if his accomplices didn't come back soon, he'd probably be able to put two and two together. Then he and their other accomplices, if there were any, would know that there were people out looking for them and thus, they would plan their further proceedings with extreme caution. Which would make the possibility for the two teams to apprehend further members of the kidnapping group dwindle towards zero.

Right now, Wellman was being interrogated by his former team members, but they didn't seem to be getting anywhere with him. He and his two accomplices Johnson and Taccone were denying very convincingly to ever have heard mention the name of a certain Professor Charles Eppes. But even if they could fool the officers and agents in Ennis with their performance, Don still didn't believe a word they said.

He ran his hands over his face. The urge to drive to Ennis and take their suspects to task was great, but at the same time, he knew that Ian had been right this morning: there was a big chance that this wouldn't help his brother one bit. Instead, he should stay and regain his strength for the next day.

But for what? Their endeavor seemed entirely forlorn. In the beginning, Don had believed that in spite of the area's vastness, it should be possible to start a reasonable search and find their perpetrators' hiding-place and thus Charlie within a couple of days. Now, however, he had to realize that the park was more than a little rough in this part and that this was a major disadvantage for them. The kidnappers might know trails to get them to less secluded spots fairly easily, but if Don and his team didn't want to run the risk of overlooking anything, they had to be more thorough than that and search also more impassable areas. So even though they had been on their feet for the entire day, they still hadn't managed to search more than a tiny area. It was like tilting at windmills.

"We need more people on the search," Don said into the exhausted silence that had encompassed the five agents in their 'headquarters'.

Ian grimaced, his mouth having some similarity with an almost derisive grin. "And where are you going to get them from? Tomorrow is Sunday. If you're trying to get a real search party for something like this, something that isn't an immediate emergency, you'll have to wait until Monday. Besides, you should keep in mind that at bottom you still don't have any proof that Charlie's around here somewhere, not as long as those guys are denying everything."

For a second, Don felt a hatred against his esteemed colleague flaring within him, a hatred so great that it made it almost impossible for him to remain seated more or less calmly. "He is here," he said and could hardly keep the anger out of his voice. "And we have to find him."

"Still, you won't be able to do much before Monday."

"We can't wait for that long. If our four suspects have further accomplices up here, and it's pretty likely that they do, they'll be warned now, so we have to catch Rosenthal and eventual others before they can get away."

"It's possible that they aren't in such a hurry to go into hiding. They know that at least for a couple of days, the park gives them excellent conditions not to be found, so they can take all the time they need to accurately prepare their escape. Since apart from Rosenthal we don't know their other accomplices, they don't even run a risk of being recognized if they get out of their hiding-place."

"But they don't know that," David objected. "How should they know who exactly we are looking for and who we know about?"

"You're forgetting their informants," Ian reminded them. "Wellman was one of them, but I don't believe that he was the only one. The way I see this, our group of kidnappers have been working on that secret project for some time now with the help of a wide net of informants sitting as moles in all kinds of agencies. I mean, we have people here from the CIA _and_ from the FBI, and maybe this thing is even bigger than we can see so far."

"So if you're right, what does that mean for us?" Colby asked.

Ian shrugged. "That going on with the search is still our best shot if you want to find Charlie."

"Isn't there a way to get through the area faster somehow?"

Ian shook his head. "Forget it, Sinclair, searching faster would mean running the risk of overlooking something, unless you were saying you want to run through the forest, in which case go ahead and break a leg. No, the rational thing is continuing the search the way we've been searching so far. From Monday onward, we can try to get help from somewhere else, maybe even try to get a helicopter, although I'm not sure that would help us much. Again, this area is so unclear that if we're not thorough enough, we could run past the hiding place and everything we're doing would be in vain."

"In any case, we should all try to get some rest now," Don decided, but there wasn't much left of his usual authority. "Tomorrow at half past six we meet here before we start the search again."

They dispersed to allow themselves a couple of hours of sleep. Don however wasn't sure if that would work for him. His thoughts were fully occupied with Charlie and with his bad conscience of not being able to be of more help to his little brother. But what could he do? This wasn't L.A. They were strangers here and had to be almost grateful for any kind of help they got from the locals. If they hadn't put the APBs out themselves, the police in Ennis might not even have let the FBI conduct the interrogation without a court order. This wasn't playing at home. Otherwise, they might have been able to contact enough people that would have been prepared to do some overtime, they might have called in favors, and considering what Charlie had done for all kinds of law enforcement, they probably would have managed to put together a sizeable search party even on a Sunday, but this way… They didn't even have enough proof that Charlie was actually here somewhere, since his suspected kidnappers were denying everything so credibly. At bottom, all they had were suspicions, so all they could do was conduct a search in microcosm, at least for now, especially during the week-end.

 _But keep holding on, buddy_ , Don thought before he fell asleep. _We're gonna find you. I promise you that._


	41. Under the Weather

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1  
 **A/N:** Thanks for showing your interest in the story! Mega07ghost, I did some tweaking to make Ian a little less obnoxious while at the same time trying to keep him in character, so he's still not the most warm-hearted person in this story. Still hope you enjoy.

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41\. Under the Weather

Charlie's awakening was a slow one. He could hear the twittering of birds, and for a moment, he actually felt happy. The feeling lasted until he noticed that he was hurting all over. Every single bone in his body seemed cricked, and every single muscle seemed to have been put through a meat grinder. Moaning softly, he opened his eyes.

At bottom, the sight that greeted him was a very idyllic one: a sun-flooded forest, light and dark green splotches everywhere he locked, some of the small forest flowers were blossoming… Charlie, however, was much too weary to cherish the wonders of nature around him, and besides –

Damn. Besides, he was on the run.

While Charlie became fully aware again of his situation, he also noticed how sore his feet were. He took a look at them. They weren't just completely dirty, up to his knees, but also grazed and bloody in some spots. He couldn't imagine how he should be able to get up now, much less continue his barefooted hike through this wilderness. Too bad he hardly had a choice.

With a groan, he pulled himself upwards with much help of the tree he'd been sleeping against. He grimaced with pain when he was standing on his feet again, but there was no way around it. He had to go on. He wanted to go home. Now.

He was just about to start walking when he stopped abruptly. He had to take a double look. There, between the trees, less than fifty yards at a distance from him, there had been movement. Charlie was staring at the moving point – no, at the giant, moving mass – and thought his heart was about to stop beating. It was a bear. A real-life bear, life-sized and, most importantly, in the flesh.

Charlie hardly dared breathing, but his subconscious was less willing to adhere to such safety measures and he was about to hyperventilate before reason started taking over again. _Don't panic_ , he told himself while at the same time he was doing his best to ignore the other voice, that shrill one that was shouting at him that he was crazy and that reminded him of the fact that he was currently in reach of a giant wild animal. Of an omnivore.

All of a sudden, the bear turned his head, and Charlie was certain that it was looking directly at him. He tried averting his eyes, tried not to antagonize it, but that wasn't easy. The bear was coming towards him now, with its agonizingly slow, leisurely gait. _Don't make a move,_ Charlie ordered himself, thinking that his legs would start running every second now. _If you don't move, it might leave you alone. Just stay invisible._

His heart was beating wildly as he watched the predator coming nearer. _Run away!_ the shrill voice hysterically shouted in his head, but the reasonable one told him to remain calm. He had to. In this terrain, he would reach a maximum velocity of at most 15 miles per hour. The bear would certainly be faster. Maybe he'd be able to reach a tree in time, but even if he did, that probably wouldn't help him. One, the trees around him didn't look like he'd be able to climb them easily, their trunks towering high without any branches he could use, and two, he was pretty sure that bears could climb, too.

So it was only in an attempt to keep his mind busy that Charlie wondered how many seconds he would have at his disposal to get to safety – wherever this safety might be located in this wilderness – if he decided to run. If he gave the bear a maximum velocity of about 30 miles per hour – it looked like a grizzly bear and Charlie knew they were fast – that would make him twice as fast as him, and considering the current distance between them, which had to be about 25 yards, the bear would reach him within another 25 yards, at least if one didn't consider reaction and acceleration times. Until now, Charlie had been hoping for a slightly longer life's journey.

His remaining lifetime in this case would be a little less than three and a half seconds. Before Charlie could wonder what he was going do in those last seconds of his life (besides running), he wanted to calculate further scenarios, inserting different acceleration times. However, that was when he noticed that the bear was past him. It hadn't walked towards him, but had passed him with some yards' distance. Which didn't mean that it wasn't going to change its mind.

Charlie turned his head, trying not to make any sound by breathing or by rustling in the shrubs, and watched the massive animal slowly depart. Finally, it was gone, and it was only now that Charlie noticed that his entire body was covered in cold sweat. There was no doubt about it, if contrary to all the laws of nature he survived this, his nerves would definitely be ready for some weeks of relaxing.

He inhaled shakily, wiped the sweat off his forehead and then forced himself to continue his hike. His legs were still trembling when he was leaving the forest, but his mind was occupied with other things now that he realized how high the sun was already standing in the sky. Apparently he'd been sleeping for over twelve hours – and that although he'd been meaning to take only a short nap! Still, maybe it was for the better, for now he felt rested enough to continue his forced travel. He only took some time to build his next п, the fourth one, during which he could allow his feet some further minutes of rest while he was scribbling down the vector, but then he went on.

Both the day and the sun were taking their course. Charlie estimated that he built a new п about every two hours, so that in the evening, he'd managed to build eight in total. Now Don just had to find one of them, that wasn't asking too much if he was already in the park, was it? True, Charlie was aware that his path had been everything but straight, at least since he'd brought some distance between himself and the kidnappers' hiding-place, so the area where his пs could be found was rather small. But sooner or later, Don would find them, and it couldn't take too long now, right? And then Amita and Larry would decipher his code and everything would be fine again. He just had to keep holding on…

In the afternoon, he reached another small creek, it was about time. However, his joy about finally seeing, hearing and touching water again was dampened quite a lot by one specific circumstance: the smell of foul eggs. Charlie had little doubt that the water was the cause of this. It had to contain sulfur, much sulfur, and Charlie wasn't sure what would hurt his health more, drinking that water or continuing to renounce on fluids for an indefinite amount of time.

His mouth was so dried-out though that he could hardly bear it anymore. He hadn't drunk anything for over a day now, and he didn't know when he would find water again. Even if he did, there was no way of knowing whether it would be clearer than this.

Eventually, his thirst gained the upper hand. The water was atrocious, but he only noticed that after a couple of gulps, for it was still water, and Charlie immediately felt a little bit more alive after drinking it. Still, he didn't dare drinking too much. One never knew.

As the day was progressing, Charlie realized that he may not have needed to take the risk of drinking contaminated water. The clouds in the sky were getting larger. It was looking like rain.

 _Great_ , Charlie thought. He wasn't really feeling like getting soaked to the skin again. True, it would enable him to drink some rainwater, which would certainly be preferable to the sulfur water. It would cover his tracks, too. However, Charlie was relatively sure to have brought a sufficient distance between him and his kidnappers, and catching a bout of pneumonia or freezing to death wasn't that much better than dying of thirst.

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Don's mood had reached a new low and his desperation a new high and the difference between the two created a tension that was potentially dangerous for his surroundings.

"Don, we should really get going now," Ian admonished him, though there was an unnatural caution in his behavior compared to his usual characteristics.

"Not yet," Don contradicted monosyllabically. They wouldn't go back now, not as long as they hadn't found Charlie.

"Are you planning on not going back until we found Charlie?" Ian asked with a slight hint of derision in his voice, as though he'd read Don's mind and was now ridiculing him for it.

"What would be so bad about that?"

"Everything. If we don't go back now, it's going to be dark before we arrive at the cabin. Then we'll have a problem ourselves and won't be able to help your brother after all. Besides, looks like a storm is gathering." He glanced at the cloud-covered sky. They had forecasted a tempest for tonight.

Don however had reached a place beyond reason. "Just a little bit further," he decided, and before Ian could argue with him, he'd already set himself in motion.

"Don –" Ian tried to hold him back, but had to see that the attempt was futile. It was probably better to just give in to Don… for about five minutes. That should be enough for him to realize the pointlessness of his endeavor.

In the meantime, Don had begun to climb a small hill. In some corner of his mind, he was well aware that they wouldn't be able to get anywhere here and now, but his desire to find Charlie had become so strong that it was even able to nurture his desperate hope a little. They just had to find a sign of life from Charlie, something to tell them that he was –

For a moment, Don wasn't sure if what he saw was actually real. Maybe it was a hallucination? Wishful thinking?

His head felt suddenly hot, and he thought he was going to lose the ground under his feet any moment now. His voice was weak when he called for Ian.

"What's up?" his voice and Ian himself came up the hill.

Don extended a shaking arm, pointing with a just as shaking index finger at the one thing he'd hoped for so much: a sign of life from his brother.

Even Ian was speechless for a moment. "I don't believe it," he then said quietly.

For some seconds, they stood there on the hill motionless before Ian got his six senses back together.

"Come on," he told Don curtly and hastened to get down the hill with Don closely behind him.

The stony pi had some resemblance with a mystical cult site, but of course there could be no doubt about who had put it there.

"Charlie…" Don whispered as they were taking a look at the work from up close. He looked up. "He was here."

It sounded a bit like a question, and in his eyes, Ian could see an uncertainty that had no reason of being there now, for now, they had to act.

"He was here," he confirmed. "He must have managed to escape somehow, at least if we assume that our nice little kidnappers didn't release him. Now we only have to figure out where he went from here."

Don nodded. He still seemed a little out of things, but then he started to call Charlie's name. Ian gave him a pitiful glance. He considered it fairly unlikely that Charlie was still in hearing range, otherwise he would have probably noticed their arrival and made himself noticeable. He let him call, though. In the meanwhile, he could examine the tracks without being disturbed.

He took a closer look at the stones. They were of different sizes, though all between fist-sized and head-sized. The more important difference, however, was the fact that not all of the stones were of the type that was lying around here. Even from a distance, he could see that two of them were made of another material, of sandstone. Ian looked around. Yes, he could see some boulders over there, that was were those stones had to be coming from. However, that was a distance of about a hundred yards. Why would Charlie carry those stones from there when there were enough stones lying around here?

He stepped back from the pi and tried to read something from the pattern that came about from the different materials being used. He couldn't see it. Well, the two pieces of sandstone were positioned at the points where the stringers of the pi were connected to the tilde, he could see that, but he had no idea what it meant. He was no mathematician, though. Charlie was seeing certain things in a different way than him, that was something that he'd learned from their collaboration so far.

However, he'd also learned that in certain respects, their ways of thinking were remarkably similar, so he didn't give up just yet. Instead, he decided to take a closer look at the two stones. He didn't have to look for long, as soon as he was close enough, it was evident: there were drawings on those stones.

"Don! Get over here!"

Don paused in his futile calling and searching and trotted back to Ian. "What is it?"

"Take a look at this," Ian said, pointing at the lines and symbols. "Does that mean anything to you?"

Don was staring at the stone. Eventually, he slowly shook his head. "No," he admitted. "But they have to be from Charlie."

Ian nodded. That much was evident. "We should take that back to our headquarters," he said. "Maybe your science guys can make some sense of these scribblings."

Don shook his head. "We can't," he objected and briefly wondered why Ian wasn't aware of that. "Charlie was here. He was right here where we're standing, and he's even telling us where to go!" Don pointed at the arrow that was carved into the stone. "We have to find him, now!"

Ian shook his head. "I'm not so sure that Charlie actually told us the direction he's headed with that arrow. Why else would he have left us with those other symbols on top of it?"

"Well, I don't know, but you can ask him as soon as we find him. But we have to go now. Come on, he has to be somewhere here in the vicinity."

Ian sighed. Don's bias was getting exhausting. "Do you see those stones over there?" he asked, pointing towards the boulders.

Don nodded. "Yeah, so what?"

"Charlie carried two of those stones from there to here. Can you think of a reason why he should have done that?"

Don eyed the distance and then shook his head.

Again, Ian sighed. Don really wasn't on top of his game right now. But then again, who could blame him. "You remember the rain yesterday morning? I assume that the stones here were too wet for Charlie to leave his message on them. Those stones over there, however, are shielded from the weather by the rocks above them. They must have been dry."

"Alright, but how does that help us?"

"Just think. Since it hasn't rained since yesterday morning, Charlie must have put this here some time yesterday, otherwise those stones would have been dry. And do you really think he's been hiding somewhere around here since then? Considering that he probably escaped from his kidnappers and has to assume they're hunting for him?"

Don was silent. It was enough of an answer for Ian.

"Come on. We should get going before the storm starts. We'll take the stone with us and show it to your math geeks, they might be able to make something of it. Would be like Charlie to try and communicate with them in such a way."

Ian was already bending down, but Don held him back. "Wait." Ian was afraid that Don would still be trying to persuade him to continue his useless search for Charlie right here and now, but he had to realize that Don was still having quite useful ideas. "We shouldn't disturb the scene, not without documenting how everything looks like since we don't know what is relevant and what isn't. And it's probably better if we only take one of those stones with us and leave the other one here without disturbing it."

Even before Ian could start thinking about how they were going to go about the securing of the evidence, Don had pulled out his cell. True, they didn't have service here, but that wasn't necessary. He just needed it to take some pictures, from the stone, from its position in the pi, from the pi itself and from its surroundings. Only then did Ian take the stone, which fortunately wasn't as heavy as it looked like. As he took it up, they noticed the drawings underneath the stone, but couldn't detect any difference to the ones on the stone. Still, Don took another picture of it.

When they started back, Don glanced at the sky and back at the stone sign, the sign of life Charlie had left for them. It felt utterly wrong to leave from here without having accomplished anything, and still Don realized that Ian was right once again. True, they had flashlights with them, but they wouldn't help all that much in a storm like the one they were expecting. They just had to return to their headquarters if they didn't want to put themselves at risk. And yet, Don couldn't shake a feeling of guilt while they made their way back to their safe and warm log cabin whereas his little brother would be exposed to the caprices of nature.

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Charlie was looking up at the sky. At first he thought that maybe dusk was already approaching, before he found that the change in the lighting conditions was at least partially stemming from the rain clouds above his head. He didn't have to wait much longer until the first rain drop hit him, which was closely followed by innumerable other ones.

Soon, Charlie was wading through mud. The rain and the wind accompanying it were furious, but by now, he was too wet anyway as though it would have helped to try and find shelter somewhere.

When once again, he hardly managed to pull his foot out of the mud, he leaned against a tree after all to take a break, exhausted. Unfortunately, the trees here weren't as close to each other to offer him shelter from the rain. For a moment, Charlie wondered whether it wouldn't have been better after all to try and find one of the hiking trails and continue his path there, but he quickly dismissed the idea again. He hadn't avoided the trails for no reason, one never knew whom one came across there. Besides, it was only rain.

For now. However, it wasn't only rain for long. Soon, the dark sky was illuminated by lightning, which was followed by rolling thunder a couple of seconds later. Charlie would have given much to have his watch with him right now in order to determine how far it was away, but even without it, he could guess that this first lightning was at a distance of approximately three miles and three quarters from him, considering that sound travelled approximately 1100 feet per second and he'd counted 18 seconds between the flash and the thunder.

However, it didn't remain at those three miles and three quarters. The lightning was getting closer. Even though Charlie had always felt a certain fascination for lightning, this time, his enthusiasm was limited. For here, he wasn't a marveling observer of a phenomenal spectacle of nature with enormous electrical forces. Here, he was right in the middle of nature, a plaything of those forces. He had to admit that from here, this spectacle held a thrill he could have gone without. Here, he was exposed to nature without protection.

While the flashes were coming in quicker succession, the storm was taking up pace as well, whipping the rain across Charlie's face. By now, Charlie had accepted that with these weather conditions, it would be better to look for the sheltering shade of a rock after all. There at least there would be no risk of lighting to strike, and the wind wouldn't make him as chilly as he would be in an open space. There would be no branches breaking off and down on him, and when it came to rocks falling off in that weather – well, Charlie just hoped that wouldn't happen tonight.

The following hours felt like ages to him. He was shivering, wondering if that was really merely caused by the cold. He was longing for his warm bed, for the comfort of his home and for the calming sound of raindrops hitting a window pane. At home, a thunderstorm like this was something to make him appreciate the comfort of his home even more. Out here, it was hell.

Eventually, however, it was over. The lightning had passed him with a more or less reassuring distance of about a mile without striking a tree somewhere in his vicinity and without finding another way to make his situation more precarious than it already was. The rain was still falling and the wind still blowing, but also they had abated noticeably.

Charlie decided to go on walking even though he could hardly see a thing under this dark sky that was still covered with rain clouds. Neither the moon nor the stars could be seen, but his desire to finally get home again was pushing him forward. He didn't want this anymore. He was longing to finally get some rest, to see his family again, to see Larry, and to stop feeling like the sole participant of a much too real reality TV show.

His desire was even strong enough to make his usually so rational mind go astray. Wasn't he in the act of walking through night and rain through a national park's wilderness? He could at least have decreased his velocity a bit as he walked along the narrow ridge between a wall of rock and a steep acclivity, but by now, he was so much used to such a terrain that he hardly realized its dangers anymore. Under different circumstances, Charlie would have considered himself completely crazy, but by now, he was so immersed in his activity of walking that it didn't seem much riskier to go on walking than to lie down somewhere in this dark wilderness in his wet clothes. At least this way, he wouldn't be awakened by another bear.

Charlie was just deliberating when he should build his next п. Maybe he could build it now, even though it was night and even though it was still raining, but he realized that he'd been walking for quite some time since his last one. Maybe he should use another date as well, one could never be too careful. He was just trying to discern whether somewhere before him, the terrain would serve his purpose, when his foot slipped away from under him. He uttered a small cry, he lost his balance and fell down sideways. Somehow, his leg must have twisted in an unnatural way during that, for he heard something snap and at the same moment, he felt an awfully sharp pain. He was seeing stars and felt his world spinning even before it actually started to spin as he rolled down an incline, at least he thought he did, but orientation wasn't something he still had the luxury of having. All he knew was that he was falling, falling further, the pain a constant companion on his fall, until it was over. He thought his body had come to a halt, but he couldn't be sure, for his world hadn't stopped spinning yet. The stars too were still there, but not for long. In a matter of seconds, they too disappeared and everything became dark.


	42. Drive and Doubts

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1  
 **A/N:** Thanks a lot for your reviews (don't worry, we got a couple of chapters left) and sorry for the delay, I'll try to do better :)

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42\. Drive and Doubts

Don silently stood at the window of the log cabin, staring into the stormy night. He was anxious. He was scared. One, because he was worried that the storm might erase the traces Charlie had left for them, and two, he was worried about Charlie himself. His brother was somewhere out there right now, and he had no way of protecting himself from the storm, and all that only because Don still hadn't managed to find him.

At least they had a lead now, but Don was again condemned to inactivity until Amita and Larry would get back to them. They'd transferred the data via video conference as soon as they'd come back. Since the symbols Charlie had carved in had been hardly visible with the camera, the team had done their best to interpret them and forward them to the scientists in a clean copy. Amita and Larry had sounded rather confident. True, at first they hadn't known what to do with the data, but eventually, Amita had said something about an 'x-axis' and suddenly, everything had seemed clear to them. Scientists among themselves.

"We're going to find him, Don."

Don turned his head. Megan was standing at his side, looking half at him, half out into the dark night. He nodded. He didn't think he'd be able to talk right now.

"Amita and Larry are going to figure it out, I'm sure about that."

"And then?" Don asked, and even though he found that despite everything, his voice was still there, he still had to notice that there wasn't much left of it.

For a moment, Megan too didn't seem to be able to form words. Or to find the right ones, who knew. "Well, then we'll take it from there. We're going to find him, Don. We've never been so close before."

"But what if that isn't enough? What if we come too late?" It was apparent that Don was at the end of his tether. However, he didn't show the weakness to let the tears flow. If it hadn't been Megan, he probably wouldn't have been so open about his thoughts to begin with. He couldn't hold it in anymore, though. The words and the scenarios had been haunting his weary brainwaves for such a long time that he just couldn't bear this burden any longer. Even though he would have never admitted it to anyone, he just had to confide into someone. "We lost so much time on our search for him by all the mistakes we made. And if… He's somewhere out there, Megan. He probably has no idea where he is, he'll be completely lost and exhausted and…" He couldn't go on. The image of his desperate little brother, alone somewhere out there, occupied his whole thinking.

"Come on, don't be such a pessimist," Megan admonished him, but cushioned the blow of her words by putting a gentle, calming hand on his shoulder. It was probably good she did that, otherwise Don might have explained to her in no uncertain ways the difference between pessimism and realism. "After all, Charlie seems to have managed to escape from his kidnappers, right? And he found a way to communicate with us, don't forget that. You're not alone with this Don, and it's not just us contributing to the search, but Charlie too. That's why we're going to find him, because we're all sticking together." She paused, which gave her next words all the more stress. "I think you should have a little more confidence in your brother."

Don stared at her. "But…"

"No 'buts'. Trust me, Charlie knows what he's doing."

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"I think this is it," Amita said. Her heart was beating in her throat. Her hope had experienced a sudden awakening when after what had seemed like ages, they'd finally had seen a sign of life from Charlie. It was as though he was trying to talk to them. The best thing was that they even understood what he was saying.

The date had been the most difficult part. They hadn't been sure what Charlie had been trying to say by that. At first, they'd assumed that it was just some sort of abbreviation for another expression they had to use somehow in order to decode the vector – because that was what had been clear all along, ever since they'd discovered the x-axis, that Charlie's clue for them was a vector. At first they'd assumed that maybe the date itself was the vector, seven, three and 2006, but in that case, the three other expressions would have been useless. They'd tried using both points, the date and the point the expressions Charlie had given them referred to, but it had remained unclear what to insert for the variables being used there. The only thing that made sense was that the date somehow gave them an answer to that question, but how, how…

"What we haven't considered so far is that he may be actually referring to the date itself," Larry had proposed.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, we're looking for something to take the place of these variables. Maybe on that July 3, Charles used a specific formula and uses this way to tell us that this is what we should be using for the vector?"

Amita had been skeptical. "But how could he do that? He's forgotten everything, remember?" It had hurt to say those words, but by now, Amita was used to pain.

"And if he does remember? You said that you too thought that it seemed to you as though his condition had become better over the last couple of days."

"But some formula he developed sometime last year –"

"Not just any formula anytime last year," Larry had objected. "Don't you remember? That day, he was perfectly busy with preparing the barbeque on the fourth. He was very stressed, so he asked us to help him with the more technical parts of the algorithm he'd developed."

Amita had slowly nodded. "You're right," she'd said. "But…" She'd hesitated and looked as though she was thinking hard. "I don't remember that algorithm, or what variables we employed. Do you?"

Larry had shaken his head. "That should be the least of our problems, though."

He'd been right. They had been able to insert numbers for the variables and calculate the correct coordinates for the position vector within no time. They'd found the answer. They would find Charlie. That much was certain.

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It was already late in the evening when they had their second video conference with the two scientists.

"We have the result," Amita told them. "Charlie gave you a direction by giving you a position vector; we're assuming that it's the same direction he headed towards. With the date, he directed our attention towards an algorithm he developed last year on July 3, an application of game theory or, more to the point, decision theory, modeling the escape routes of an escaped convict by using data from the flight behavior of prey, thus considering variables like ground conditions, the level of mobility and so on. When we inserted the values of the variables employed there in the expressions on the stone, we got the coordinates for a vector in a Cartesian coordinate system, which is given by the x-axis, you know, the arrow with the x at its end. When we interpreted the vector he gave us as a position vector, that is one that originates from the origin of the coordinate system, we got a direction that is at an angle of about 213° to the x-axis; we drew it into the coordinate system for you. Once the stone lies the way you found it, this vector should point into the direction that Charlie took."

Amita pulled up a second laptop in front of the webcam which showed an x- and a y-axis on white ground, the former pointing to the right, the latter upwards. Besides those, there was a red arrow leading away from the point where the axes intersected, pointing far to the left and a little downwards.

"This arrow," Amita explained, running along it with her finger, "is the position vector. That's the direction Charlie must have taken."

"Okay," Don said and everyone was startled at how calm his voice sounded. "Thanks."

The video conference was shut down and, as usually after one of those math lectures, the team was a little befuddled. The only exception was Don, who'd nodded silently and steadily throughout the explanation.

"You understood what they did?" David asked him, a little startled.

Don nodded and stood, still keeping his silence.

"Okay," David said, and after some seconds of hesitation, he went on, "So what did they do?"

"They figured it out." And that was all Don cared about.

He was just putting on his jacket when Ian interrupted him. "Where are you going?"

"To look for Charlie. We know the direction now."

Ian shook his head. Was it really possible for a human being to be so damn stubborn? "I'm not sure if you noticed, but if you take a look outside the window, you might realize that there's the storm of the year raging out there. And a second look might even tell you that it's dark right now."

"So what? We know that Charlie's out there."

"We don't. That's what you think. He left those signs a while ago, remember? In any event it's enough if one of you is prowling around out there, and if Charlie's clever, he's not prowling around anywhere right now, but just staying low until the storm has abated. That's what you should do, too. You won't be of great help to him if you break your neck."

Don was just about to make an objection, to tell them that he couldn't just abandon his brother like that now that they were so close to finding him. He had already opened his mouth when all of a sudden and completely unexpected, he had to think of his father. He wondered whether their dad was noticing anything of the storm here down in sunny California? He didn't know the answer to that question, but he knew that he had a responsibility, not only towards Charlie, but also towards his dad. He couldn't just act recklessly, thereby inflicting even more psychological torment upon their father.

He swallowed, thinking back at what Megan had told him earlier tonight, that he should trust his brother. _Charlie knows what he's doing._ Maybe she was right? Maybe he wasn't as helpless as Don thought?

He sighed deeply and took off his jacket. Tonight, he'd be rational and listen to their advice. Starting tomorrow, however, there wasn't anything or anybody that would be able to keep him from doing everything humanly possible to find his brother.

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Larry grimaced with pain as he put the ointment on his bruises. He eyed the unsightly discolorations. He had gotten away lucky, and all he could hope for was that the same was true for his former protégé.

He was standing bare-chested in the bathroom of the Eppes house and while he was looking into the mirror, it was as though he was looking into the past. Here, right in this room, several months ago, they had made an experiment in order to apprehend an arsonist. Larry remembered perfectly Alan explaining them something about standpipes. That time, it hadn't been him to be Charles' teacher, but his dad.

And come to think about it… the time when Larry had been able to call himself Charles' teacher or professor or mentor was long gone. Charles had been standing on his own two feet for quite some time now. Of course, there were still times when he was insecure, but never in matters concerning mathematics, not directly. No, Larry's role had become the one of a friend, one who'd been on hand with help and advice whenever Charles needed him.

Just not right now.

Now, when Charles really needed him, Larry wasn't there, he was here in California, utterly useless to him, hundreds of miles away. Granted, just earlier they had made themselves useful if you could call it that, they had solved the puzzle that Charles had given them. It hadn't been difficult, at bottom it had been trivial, and that was exactly why Larry was wondering if they weren't wrong after all. What if they were? What if they had interpreted Charles' note for them in an erroneous manner? He was trusting them, he was relying on them – what if they were letting him down?

Larry left the bathroom and made his way to the guest room. In the darkness of the living-room, he stood for a minute. He didn't know how Alan was doing this. He could literally feel Charles' presence in this house, but at the same time, there was no way he could not see that he wasn't there. How did Alan cope with that, how could he bear staying in this house?

At the same time, Larry became aware that it was easier like this, with the knowledge that there was someone else in this house, and Alan might be feeling the same way. _Maybe I'm not completely useless after all_ , Larry mused as he retreated to the guest room.

He grimaced when he let himself sink onto the mattress. The pain from his accident was still there, and yet, the worry about his longtime friend trumped it all. They couldn't allow themselves to make a mistake, they had to consider all possibilities…

What might have been a pleasantly intriguing and entertaining puzzle under different circumstances became pure hell by their personal involvement. If they were wrong, there would be no opportunity to restart, and if they were wrong, it would be Charles to pay for their inaptitude. The burden of responsibility was pressing down hard on Larry, probably harder than anything ever before in his life, but all he could do was rest for the next day and be prepared in case the need for their assistance arose anew.

However, for that he had to wait for exhaustion to overpower the tormenting thoughts of his mind.

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"David, Colby, Ian – you're coming with me. We're going to split up at Charlie's pi and search the area in the direction he went for further clues. Megan, you stay here and try to get us some reinforcements. I don't care if they think we have no proof for the connection of the two cases, Charlie's somewhere in this park and the pi should be enough of a proof for that. And we're going to need a chopper in case Charlie left us other signs like that."

The sun hadn't even fully come up yet. Don really hadn't hesitated a second this morning to make them go to work, and there was nobody in their headquarters who wouldn't understand that. Mitchell O'Hara and Juliet Disher, the two agents from Blake's team, had just joined them to bring them news about their suspects. Unfortunately, there wasn't much that was new. Only that now, the three of them had engaged lawyers, but they were still persistently denying everything. Maybe that would change now when they were confronted with their newest pieces of information, with the pi signs, but none of the agents was very hopeful. Their suspects were highly able and if they were right in assuming that this whole thing was bigger than the ones they knew about, it wasn't very likely that they would go against their organization or whatever it was and give them a full testimony. Who knew, maybe they could have even proposed impunity to their suspects and they still would have preferred the opportunities that denying everything gave them. Besides, their suspects knew all kinds of interrogation strategies, maybe even more than the federal agents. It seemed impossible to set up traps for them. At bottom, they should feel lucky that the committing magistrate had assigned more importance to their mathematically enhanced composite sketches than to the fact that they were investigating their own colleagues and thereby risking a public outcry if the media learned about it. The fact was that he gave them permission to keep their three suspects under arrest even after these first 48 hours, and at least for the time being, Don was relieved from the further worry that their kidnappers, their only real link to Charlie, would soon be at large.

The sun was already shining strongly when they reached the pi.

"Alright," Don said, having a hard time not to be overwhelmed by the emotion he felt at the sight. "Look for further traces of Charlie or clues he may have left for us. Maybe he continues talking to us through those pis, but he might also change his method. Apart from that, he may have also left traces inadvertently. We're going to keep us up-to-date as to everything that seems somehow suspicious over the radio." The others nodded and Don took one last deep breath. "Let's do this!"


	43. Trust and Hope

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1

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43\. Trust and Hope

Charlie squinted. He was hurting all over. Now even his eyes were hurting, because the light was unbearably flashy. He moaned and shut them tightly again, but that didn't make him feel much better. The worst part was his leg, but also his head felt as if a sledgehammer had come down upon it. The pain was so agonizing that it almost made him slip back into unconsciousness, but he forced himself to stay awake; he had to get an overview of his situation. Still, he only managed to open his eyes to tiny slits.

It had stopped raining. By now, the sun was already up high in the sky, shining on the world with a pure, innocent gentleness that made the storm from the night before seem like a fanciful horror story. The new weather conditions were the first thing he became aware of. Then, when he tried to dig his fingers into the soil in an attempt to alleviate the pain, he had to realize that he couldn't. He wasn't lying on soil, he was lying on stone.

He forced himself to increase the slit between his eyelashes a little further. He had to blink again and despite his caution, he could feel nausea rise inside him. He was feeling so miserable… He tried to concentrate on something else, on the parts of his body that didn't hurt, but he couldn't turn off the pain. At least after a little while he could open his eyes enough to see a little more of his surroundings than the bright sunlight and the glimmer of blue sky above him.

When he lifted his head slightly to look to his side, he was sure he'd have to give in to the nausea. He even hoped for that to happen, thinking it would come as a relief to him. However, there was no relief and what remained was an agonizing tension in his guts.

Still, his exploration had yielded results. Not a lot, but this wasn't a time to be picky. He now knew that he was lying at the foot of an incline, in the middle of scree. From up there, maybe five yards above him, he must have fallen down last night. Now he was lying here, injured in a degree he couldn't quite assess, somewhere in the vastnesses of the Yellowstone National Park.

This time, things were really looking grim for him.

He let his head sink back and even before it landed on the scree, he lost consciousness again.

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The 'further traces' Don had been talking about were nowhere to be found. Even if Charlie had left some clues for them inadvertently, they had apparently disappeared after the storm last night. All Don could hope for was that the same hadn't happened to his brother's intentional clues.

They – that is, mainly Ian – had examined the pi they had found the day before, but hadn't found anything else to point them to new information. Therefore, they had gone in the direction Amita and Larry had indicated. By means of their small GPS devices, they'd been able to map out paths that allowed them to let the distance between each other increase while they were advancing in the form of an arc of a steadily growing circle that had Charlie's pi at its center. This way, they were trying to allow for the fact that Charlie had probably wandered off slightly from his direction. Therefore, their progress was a slow and zigzagged one, but it was better this way, for they couldn't allow themselves to overlook anything of importance. It was a bit of a challenge to coordinate their individual paths effectively, but since they were only four people on the search party, it was a manageable task. Still, Don would have preferred to have more searchers at hand.

More than one time, Don had stumbled upon things he'd initially considered traces left behind by Charlie: snapped twigs, strange aggregations of stones… It had never taken him long, however, to realize that those traces had been left behind by Mother Nature herself, at best by animals. What Don couldn't find was proof that Charlie had been here.

Don wondered what his little brother's intention was. He didn't know exactly how long Charlie had been wandering through the national park's wilderness, but surely he should have been able to find a hiking trail by now if he'd wanted to. And once he would have managed to do that, sooner or later he should have found someone to help him find his way back to civilization – granted, rather later than sooner at this time of year. This hadn't happened so far, however, otherwise they would have been notified, right?

So what if Charlie had suffered some kind of setback? If everything he'd managed to remember so far was gone again? Maybe he was running in circles, maybe he was wandering through the park without a destination and without orientation, on the search for help or maybe on the search for his own self…

But maybe the reason that he hadn't shown up somewhere in the civilized world so far was that he didn't know whom he could trust, fearing that his kidnappers might get a hold of him again? This was a theory that calmed Don down a bit, for it would mean that Charlie was in full command of his mental abilities and that he was planning his actions skillfully. And the pi they'd found would be a sign in favor of this theory, right?

Still, Don couldn't stop thinking about other possibilities. So it might be true that Charlie was just avoiding civilization to protect himself – but wasn't it just as possible that he didn't have any opportunity to come back to them? It made sense that he should have reached a regular hiking trail by now – but what if his progress was much slower than Don anticipated? What if he was hurt and couldn't travel that fast? If each step was pure agony, if he was fighting pain, trying to make some progress, desperate and always hoping for Don's help that just wouldn't arrive…

Don swallowed and had to lean against a tree, and physical exhaustion wasn't the main reason for that. He couldn't go on. Not like that. It was just so maddening to imagine what his little brother might be going through right now. The insecurity and the question what was real and what was just a chimera of his overexcited nerves were wearing him down completely.

Suddenly, his radio piped up, thereby turning Don's attention away from the dull depths of his pessimistic fantasies. He pulled it up from his belt and listened intently.

"I think I found something," he heard Colby's distorted voice. "It looks like a pi of the kind Don and Ian found yesterday. I haven't examined it more closely yet, but I bet it's from Charlie and that he gave us another clue."

"Where are you?" Ian's voice asked.

Colby gave them his coordinates. Don consulted his own GPS device and found that the distance between them was about a mile.

"Wait for us there," he ordered. "We're coming."

All weariness was gone when Don set off. He was shivering, not knowing whether it was caused by agitation or by fear. They'd found another sign. The start of another stage on their search for Charlie had been heralded.

The only question was: how many more stages were there to come?

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Charlie was drifting between waking and unconsciousness. He was fighting to stay on the surface, he didn't want to let himself go, to expose himself so entirely to the dangers of the wilderness around him. He had to know what was going on around him, he couldn't bear that feeling, the feeling of an indeterminate menace.

On the other hand, he couldn't bear the pain any longer either. It would be so easy to give in to it, to let himself fall into the sea of unconsciousness where his body wouldn't hurt anymore, where he wouldn't feel or think anything anymore.

Thinking, however, was a necessity. He had to think things through. During the hours he'd been lying here, it had dawned upon him in how precarious a situation he found himself in: he didn't know where he was, and he couldn't move. To make matters worse, neither did anyone else know where he was. He didn't know how great the distance was he'd traveled since his last п, he only knew that it was great. Too great, maybe. For of course he knew that he'd never been able to stick to the direction he'd given them with a hundred per cent accuracy, much less in this terrain. Don might stray from his course as well, but if they were using GPS, as Charlie hoped, their deviation was negligible. Now his latest walk had been interrupted through the rain, but if he assumed his usual temporal average distance between the пs, two hours, that made the distance he'd travelled, depending on his velocity… well, let's round it up to six miles. If he assumed further that he'd strayed from his course by at most 20°, a fairly optimistic assumption, that gave him a maximum distance to the right course of about 2 miles – and that was anything but within call. Besides, Don and the team first had to find those пs. Once they did, it would take them a while to figure out that the trace of пs broke off at one point and then they would have to find another way to trace him in this wilderness. All that took time.

In the meanwhile, he'd be stuck here. The pain, especially the pain in his leg, was so agonizing that even the thought of moving hurt him. _But maybe_ , he thought, _maybe it'll get better? Maybe I just have to stay still for a couple of hours and then it'll be bearable at least?_

Too bad he didn't believe that. True, he wasn't a doctor and even if he were, he probably wouldn't have been able to self-diagnose right now, but if he wasn't mistaken, his leg was messed up badly enough to make medical attention necessary. And soon. For barring a miracle, he wasn't going to leave this place – meaning he could neither eat, nor drink, nor call for help.

Charlie was shivering, not sure whether it was because of the fear or the cold. Shudders were running down his spine, but he hardly felt them. He'd been lying here for far too many hours now. He was chilled to the bone, so much so that he could hardly feel the cold anymore, his body was numb. But maybe the cold wasn't the sole cause for the numbness either, maybe his injuries had something to do with that? He didn't know. Either way, the cold was one more thing to make him miserable, one more thing to make him wish with an unimaginable intensity that all this should just stop.

 _Please, Don,_ he thought intently when another wave of pain rolled over him. _Please, hurry._

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The sun was already approaching the horizon when Don reached his two colleagues. Ian wasn't there yet. He and Colby had been at the outer parts of their search chain, Colby on the left, Ian on the right, David and Don between them. Colby had found the pi by looking down from a small hill, it had been between him and David.

"Here are the… calculations," Colby informed his boss, pointing at the two stones at the intersections of the vertical lines of the pi and the tilde. At the last second he'd refrained from calling Charlie's note to them 'scribblings'.

Don looked at the signs intently. He couldn't detect any significant difference to their last 'stone mail'.

"So I guess the direction the arrow with the x at its end is pointing us to is wrong again?" David asked.

Don shrugged. "Possibly," he said tersely. He tried to make sense of Charlie's message, but now it took its toll that he hadn't listened that closely to Amita's and Larry's explanation. Thus, he settled for taking pictures of the symbols and their position in the pi.

Few minutes later, Ian joined them. "Found anything?" he asked when he was still at some distance. "Apart from that math voodoo, I mean?"

"No," Colby called back as Ian approached them. "We thought we'd leave that to you."

"Right, so I'm supposed to do all the work again, nice," Ian said with a hint of derision. "So if you haven't –"

"Let's get to work now, alright?" Don cut him off angrily, and an uncomfortable silence ensued.

Ian got into a kneeling position, taking a close look at the stones with the calculations and at the ground around them. He couldn't see anything helpful. He got back up and examined the ground around the pi in a wider area, but there were no traces to be found.

"He must have built this thing prior to the storm last night," he said. "I'm sure I'd find traces of him otherwise. After all, the soil was still fairly moist from the rain three nights ago."

"Your best guess, where should we go now?" Don pushed.

Ian pointed back towards east. "Right there."

Don frowned. "That's where we came from."

"Exactly. We gotta show that stone to your math geeks, don't we? Or have I missed something and you're suddenly a member of their little math magic club?"

Don wasn't sure if he wanted more to protest against Ian's proposal or to admonish him, telling him he should keep his blasphemies about math to himself. Even though Don himself had shown his annoyance with numbers on multiple occasions, Charlie had proven to him often enough that they could be quite useful. And right now, such numbers were the only help they got to find Charlie, so if Ian made one more snarky remark about that, he'd get into serious trouble with Don.

"We gotta get back anyhow," Ian decided. "We won't make it all the way back to the log cabin before nightfall, but we should try to travel most of the way while we got still daylight."

"We got flashlights," Don objected. "We can go on with the search."

Ian sighed. "Yeah, and for how long? Let's put aside for a minute the fact that we have no idea in which direction we should be going, but even if we did, we should still save our strength so that we can continue the search also tomorrow and the day after that and, if necessary, the whole next month."

Don was trying to protest again, but Ian wouldn't give him a chance. "I know you want to find your brother, Don. We all want that, in case you haven't realized. But you have to grant us and yourself a rest every now and then, and that's me saying that. How about you stop making biased decisions for once and instead listen to our advice? Couldn't hurt you to trust your team for a change."

Don was silent. He knew that Ian was right, he knew that the days of searching – or weeks, to be more precise, the two weeks that had elapsed since Charlie's abduction – were taking their toll. Still, he was longing so much to find him…

 _Trust_.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he just had to accept that this time, he was wrong, that he was too biased, too strongly influenced by his feelings? Maybe he did have to hold himself back this time, maybe do things that were against his own common sense? Until now, he'd never found a reason to regret trusting his team. So maybe that was the right thing to do this time as well?

"Let's go," Don decided tersely, but couldn't ban the harshness from his voice. Of course he realized they were right. They didn't know which way they should be heading. Still, Don couldn't miss the fact that they were taking an awful amount of time to find Charlie. They were letting him down…

The gloomy thoughts accompanied him on the whole way back as the four agents silently made their way through the increasingly dark wilderness.

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Charlie awoke, but wasn't fully aware of that for some time. One, because it was night and two, because his mind didn't have the leisure to immediately make this assessment. His gray matter was much too occupied with that excruciating pain for it to grasp anything else.

This time, it was much more difficult to concentrate and get a grasp of his situation than just a few hours earlier. Where was he, anyway? There weren't many people around, just nature and… right, the Yellowstone. And how again had he come here? He hadn't… yeah, the abduction… Rosenthal and his men. The dugout. His cell. The interrogations, his self-made release, the hike through the park through day and night, then the storm… and now the end of the line, here, among the boulders. How long had he been lying here? He truly had no idea. He just knew that it was longer than could be good for him.

All he could do was hope. It just had to happen, soon, this would soon be over…

What was he waiting for again?

Charlie closed his eyes fully, the slim split they'd been opened so far not being very helpful anyway, and tried hard to concentrate. What was going on? What was he doing here? Well, not much. Breathing. Hoping. Waiting. But for what, for what…

For help! Of course! Because help had to come, it just had to… Don would soon be there, he was close… right? He was real close, he would soon find him, it was just a matter of time.

Too bad time wasn't something he had unlimited access to.

"Don," Charlie whispered, but since his voice couldn't crack the 20 decibel mark, it was an ill-suited attempt to call for help. Still, Charlie was hoping against hope that Don would notice his desperation somehow, even though the thought was anything but rational. Rationality, however, had stopped being useful to him by now. All he had left was hope.


	44. Seek and You Will Find

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1  
 **A/N:** Thanks for your reviews! Faith (and anyone else who's interested), this story is completely written with 62 chapters in total, plus an epilogue. I'll try to update at least weekly, but since I have to translate the story into English first, I can't guarantee that.

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44\. Seek and You Will Find

"Finally, there you are!" they were greeted by Megan when they stepped into the log cabin. "Did you – you found another clue," she assessed with a look at the stone in Colby's hands.

Colby nodded. "That's why we need a video conference with Amita and Larry asap."

Megan was already busy with her laptop while Colby was still talking.

"Did you get anywhere with getting more help?" Don asked his colleague with newly awakened hope.

"I did," she said while the connection to Los Angeles was established. "Starting tomorrow, we'll have two choppers at our disposal along with their crew." She let the words hang for a moment so they could take effect. "It took a while to get those choppers, but I thought that right now, it's more important to get one or two of those than more people on the ground. When the choppers were arranged for, I tried to get some further people to search on the ground, but that wasn't that easy. There are a vast number of rangers here in the park, but most of them come up here only in the beginning of June. In the beginning of May, there's much less people up here, but of course I wouldn't give in, so starting tomorrow, we'll have four rangers as an addition to our team, who will be more familiar with the area. That's everything I managed to organize, though."

"Then let's hope that it'll be enough," Don said, but he was much more confident to find Charlie now than only a couple of minutes ago.

The video conference with Amita and Larry had been connected. Don could see that this time, they weren't at the FBI, but at Charlie's house.

"You found something?" Amita asked immediately.

"The same thing as yesterday," David said. "We thought you'd be able to give us a direction again. Wait a sec, we'll make a clear copy for you."

Few moments later, Charlie's notes had been transferred as accurately as possible more legibly on a sheet of paper.

"How long is that going to take you?" Don asked.

Amita took a quick glance at the notes. "Not long probably. It seems as though Charlie used the same algorithm for the variables as he did last time, at least he gave us the same date, so it shouldn't take us more than five minutes."

"More – _what_?!"

Amita halted in her attempt to make out the symbols on the paper over the webcam, looking into the agents' unbelieving faces instead.

"The calculations are very basic," Larry responded in her place. "What impeded our progress last time was merely figuring out how to interpret the date, that is to find the algorithm Charlie employed. The rest is pure and simple vector calculation using a couple of variables."

"Okay," Don said a bit hesitantly, "so can you try to figure out the direction he took?"

The agents watched in silence as the two scientists set to work. Those five minutes hadn't passed yet when they presented their results to them.

"This is it," Amita said, holding a second laptop showing a coordinate system in front of the webcam. Or something like a coordinate system. They'd drawn in the x-axis as an arrow with an x at its blunt end, just like Charlie had done it on the stone, and had drawn in the y-axis only as a thin line. Besides the axes, there was an arrow that went up almost vertically.

"If you need to know the exact angle," Amita said, "it is about 103° to the x-axis."

"Alright," Don nodded while he was still trying to comprehend how they'd managed so fast to find something going only by such incomprehensible symbols. "Thank you, guys."

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Amita turned off the webcam and looked at Larry. "What if we made a mistake?" she asked, suddenly insecure.

"We didn't," Larry calmed her down. "We came to the same result independently. Besides, I'd say that both you and I are more than qualified for simple vector geometry."

Amita shook her head. "We didn't find the result independently. We both assumed the same algorithm and we both assumed that we were looking for a vector."

"Yes, and we did that because anything other than a vector wouldn't make any sense."

"And the algorithm? What if it's wrong? Or what if we used it in a wrong way?"

Larry took her hand between his. "Amita, didn't you listen to Don and the others? They found the п, and they found it with the help of our calculations. Considering the results, wouldn't you say that it seems as though our methodology is sound?"

"It could have been a coincidence that they found the п."

"And the probability for that would be what, ten per cent, five?" He hesitated for a moment, frowned and then asked a little softer, "Why is it that you're so pessimistic?"

That was the breaking point. "Pessimistic?!" Amita had freed her hand and jumped up from her chair. "You call that _pessimistic_? Charlie has been _kidnapped_ , we have no idea where he is, and if we don't find him soon, it might be too late, and who knows, maybe it's already… maybe –" She broke off. She couldn't utter those words.

Larry stared at her. He didn't know what to do. Calm her down? But how? Whatever he said would probably just make her more agitated.

As if out of nowhere, Alan appeared, and he did the only sensible thing: he pulled Amita into a fierce hug and held her tightly against his chest, lending her his shoulder to cry on.

"You need to stay positive," he whispered into her hair after some time. "You have come so far. You're going to find him. You can't give up hope now."

Amita nodded, the tears still streaming down her face.

"Everything's going to be fine, you'll see."

Another nod, accompanied by tears, then she slowly freed herself from his hold. "Please excuse me," she mumbled before she disappeared upstairs.

Under Larry's watchful eyes, Alan lowered himself into his favorite armchair. All of a sudden, he looked ten years older than just a few moments ago. His head was tilted backwards and his eyes were closed. Larry studied him, the posture, the lines on his face, his whole appearance. He couldn't tell for sure, but he thought that Alan had lost weight over the past few weeks and months. He hadn't noticed it so far, but now… Alan didn't just seem older, but also less strong, somehow more vulnerable. And who could blame him? He'd lost a son, found him again and lost him again. Larry didn't know how much more it would take to turn Alan into a bowed down old man, but he knew that it couldn't be a lot. It seemed almost inconceivable that he was still standing more or less upright now, figuratively.

"How are you doing that?" he asked into the silence, startling himself a little.

Alan lifted his head and looked at him. He seemed exhausted. "What do you mean?"

"How can you… where do you take your strength from?"

Alan smiled weakly. "I don't know what strength you're talking about. All I do is trying to hope."

Larry stared into space. What Alan said sounded reasonable. Too bad it also sounded perfectly impracticable. He wasn't sure whether he could really ask his next question, unsure whether Alan was actually as strong as he seemed, but he couldn't hold it back either. "But how do you do that?"

Alan smiled a little dreamily, although he didn't seem to be caught up in a very happy dream. "I guess it has something to do with trust," he said after a little while. "You know, I've had time to practice that as a father for more than thirty years now. As they grow up, you learn that you can't protect them from the world forever, and you shouldn't, because you… well, you have to let them find their own way in the world." He paused. "That's what I did. Or anyway, I tried. To let them choose their own way and to just trust that everything will go well in the end. I should probably be more surprised that things have gone so well so far, with first Charlie going all the way to Princeton and then, all alone to England, and with Don's job with the FBI and the time he worked in fugitive recovery…"

He trailed off and Larry hesitated, warring between the prudence not to say something hurtful and the scientific duty to stick to the facts. "This, however," he said eventually, "I mean _this…_ This requires something entirely different from a father's common trust."

"It does. But Larry – my sons have shown me over the years that I can trust them. That they know what they're doing. And I… well, I trust that Charlie can somehow take care of himself, and that Don manages to find him."

"So you're not afraid?"

Also Alan's laugh didn't seem very happy. "Oh no. I don't think that you, or anyone else for that matter, can imagine how terrified I am. But what's there to do about it? All I can do is sit here and wait."

Larry nodded and forced himself to keep his mouth shut for once. Now, however, once Alan had gotten going, he didn't need further incitements to torture himself even more. "You're probably thinking that I'm deluding myself, right?" He shook his head heavily, then leaned it back against the headrest. "Well, I can assure you, I'm not. I know that…" His voice failed him and he had to clear his throat. The voice came back only incompletely. "I know that Charlie could already be dead. I just hope… I just hope that Donnie… that he'll find him in time, because if he doesn't… if he…"

With his eye-brows drawn together in a commiserating manner, Larry watched Alan trying to get the control over his facial expressions back before he hastily stood, throwing an "Excuse me" over his shoulder.

With his mind numb, Larry was left behind on the couch in the living room, unsuccessfully trying not to imagine the effects that Charlie's second death would have on his surroundings.

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"Alright, so what do you propose?" Don asked the two helicopter pilots at the briefing of the new and considerably larger search party on Tuesday morning.

"We'll have to fly low," Robert Benjamin began, a dark blond giant of six and a half feet, of sturdy built and in his mid-thirties.

The other pilot, Ralph Mansfield, brown-haired and in his forties, nodded approvingly. "Which in turn means that we won't be able to search a large area, so it's probably a good thing that we've got some people on the ground as well." He eyed the group of nine – Don's team (including Ian) and the four rangers that Megan had been able to rustle up – before he went on. "If something catches our eye and we can't land because of the conditions on the ground, we'll radio you our position so that you can take a closer look at that while we continue our search from up high. One of you should stay here, though."

Don nodded. "Sounds good to me. Megan, you're holding down the fort here, alright?" She nodded, so Don went on, "Alright. In case we lose contact, we'll meet here, at the latest tonight at sundown. Let's get to work then!"

The ground troops began their search at some miles distance from the pi, having jumped ahead in the direction it was pointing them. The helicopter was going in almost the same direction, the difference couldn't be more than a couple of degrees, although the helicopter wasn't flying in a straight line, trying to cover more ground.

"The four of us will be going that way," Don said, pointing at Ian, himself and two of the park rangers that would resume their work in the park in a couple of weeks, when the high season would begin. They were a man and a woman, the man around fifty with gray hair, a sun-burnt face and a keen gaze. The woman was much younger, maybe in her mid twenties, blond and looking as if she'd jumped out of a storybook about Greenpeace activists.

"You're going into the direction the other chopper is headed," he told David, Colby and the two other park rangers, a red-haired man about thirty with a youthful expression on his face and a woman in her late thirties, sporting the same determined Greenpeace activist expression as her female colleague.

The four rangers and the two helicopter crews would be at their disposal until Friday and they were all hoping that they would find Charlie until then. Don actually had a good feeling about that (which meant a lot, given his current predisposition for pessimism). After all, the pis and the knowledge of the past two rainstorms told them that Charlie was only one or two days ahead of them. So with the helicopters, they should be able to follow him fast enough so that they should find him soon…

Ian, Don, Jennifer Baker and Martin Hawkens, the two park rangers, reached the spot that the pilot had designated to them as a possible pi. There was nothing here, though. Alright, there were some rocks here, which was a little unusual since they were in the forest, but no matter how closely they examined the area, there was no sign of Charlie to be found.

"It may have looked like a pi from above, through the trees," Ian speculated before they got moving again.

They hadn't gone far before their radios piped up once more. "We got something," Ralph Mansfield, their pilot, told them. "A little over half a mile south-west of you. Really looks like a pi this time. We'll try to find a place to go down somewhere."

It wouldn't have needed Don's order to set the small group moving. It didn't take them long to find what Mansfield must have been talking about. They had reached the end of the forest and now it wasn't difficult to recognize the stony symbol before them as one of Charlie's pis.

"Seems as though Charlie put some thought into building those," Ian remarked as he inspected the pi's surroundings with a brief overall look.

"You mean the position?" asked Don, whose pulse had started quickening again at the sight of the pi. They were on the right track…

"Exactly," Ian confirmed. "The three pis we found so far were all situated in a clearing or, like this one, apart from the forest, thus at spots that can be easily seen from higher ground or from the sky."

"But…" Don hesitated, though only briefly, before he went on. "But if he thinks we're looking for him, why doesn't he just wait somewhere?" It wound be so much easier for all of them, they would find him so much sooner…

"We already went through that, Don. Apart from the fact that it's not the most reasonable thing to do to just sit there and wait if he's not absolutely sure that we're looking for him _and_ gonna find him,he's probably afraid that his kidnappers are chasing him. And he might be right, after all we still haven't found Rosenthal and we don't know if there aren't more members of their group."

Don nodded as though he accepted the answer while in truth, he had to fight nausea as his mind presented him with the picture of his little brother running from his kidnappers for dear life.

Just as they were about to turn their attention towards the stone with the calculations, Mansfield and his crew were coming down a hill to join them.

"Sorry for the delay," the pilot said with a smile on his face. "We had to find a place to land first. We thought we might destroy traces if we came down right here, and the immediate surroundings are too rocky, so we landed on the plateau up there. So what are we looking at?"

"Those are the calculations we were talking about," Ian explained, indicating the stone. The crew and the two rangers looked at the scribblings mildly interested and more than mildly confused. "The arrow is not pointing into the right direction, but the numbers and other symbols give us another arrow that will point us into the right direction."

"So you can figure out in which direction we have to go on looking?" Mansfield seemed slightly surprised.

"We can't," Ian grinned. "But we got people for that."

They went back to the helicopter and first notified the crew of the other helicopter, telling them and the other ground troop to join them here, before they contacted Megan. Don was the one to conduct the conversation.

"Hey Megan, we found another pi, could you set up a connection to Larry and Amita?"

"Doing it," her answer came. "You can give me the information right now, so I can pass it on as soon as the connection is there."

"Alright. So we've got that arrow with the x at its end again and then those brackets with the three chains of symbols one below the other. On top, it says 302a, in the middle 195w and below 928 and a symbol that looks a little like a small u with a long line on the left, downwards."

"Alright. Is that it?"

"There's also the date, it's December 31, 2005 this time."

"That was New Year's Eve the year before last, the drug smugglers, remember? Hold on, I just got the connection with Larry and Amita, I'm going to pass their results onto you in a minute."

"Okay," Don said and took a deep breath. They had made some progress. They were constantly making progress now, even though it still seemed to Don as though they were taking steps the size of mice. He would have preferred seven-league boots. Yet, with every step that they were getting closer to Charlie, he was becoming more confident that everything might turn out well in the end. After all, they knew that Charlie was still alive, he was communicating with them. And now, with the helicopters, they would decrease the distance to him more and more, it couldn't take long now, they would find him, maybe even today…

The thought made Don's heart beat a little faster. _Maybe even today._ Maybe today this whole odyssey would finally come to an end and they would finally find him and he would be fine and they would be able to return home. And Charlie _was_ fine, they knew that, the pis were proof of that.

All that was left for them to do was finding him, a triviality, considering. Everything was fine, there was no doubt about it.


	45. Miscalculated?

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1

* * *

45\. Miscalculated?

"I'm assuming you found another п?" Larry asked as soon as the connection had been made.

"You're assuming correctly," Megan confirmed while she tried to get a good look at Larry despite the obstacles they had to face due to being bound by technology. Indeed, he seemed to be getting better day by day, Alan and Amita seemed to be taking really good care of him. He'd be back to full health soon, surely he would.

Amita appeared on her screen. "What does it say?" she asked, the words terse, so Megan had no hard time imagining in how bad a turmoil her feelings still were behind her composed façade.

"There's an arrow again and then those brackets with 302a on top, 195w in the middle –"

"W?" Larry asked.

"That's what Don said. And below 928 and something that looks like a u with a long line on the left, downwards."

"A μ," Amita said, sounding quite confused.

Megan had to be careful not to laugh out loud. "A what? A 'mu'? What on earth is that?"

"It's the Greek letter m," Larry explained. "More importantly, it's something that doesn't show up in Charlie's algorithm, and neither is there a w. Are you absolutely sure that this is what it says?"

"I think so, I – wait a sec! The date is important, too, isn't it?"

"Of course. Why do you ask?"

"Because it's different this time. It's not July 3, but December 31, 2005."

"The 31…" Larry mused. "That was one of those cases with game theory and imperfect information, wasn't it?"

Megan wasn't sure what to respond to that. "Maybe," she said a bit hesitantly before she won back her professionalism. "The case about the drug smugglers."

"Wait a second," Amita suddenly said, but all that Megan could see was that she turned around to another laptop. And that Larry's eyes became wider and wider as he watched the processes on the screen over her shoulder.

"Amita, correct me if I'm wrong, but it looks as though you are currently hacking into the FBI network," he said alarmed and Megan could feel her jaw drop.

"It doesn't really classify as hacking, considering that I've got the necessary access data legally."

"But… you still can't get access to their network from here."

"Of course I can. Watch me."

For a moment, Larry was rendered speechless by Amita's uncharacteristic perkiness. "Amita –"

"It's an emergency, alright?" she justified herself while her fingers darted across the keyboard, her gaze kept on the screen highly focused. "Nobody's going to notice a thing anyway. But we need the file from that case to figure out what Charlie's referring to and everything else would take too – I've got it."

On the screen, there appeared the virtual file of a case from around the end of 2005. It didn't take the two scientists much longer to find the algorithm Charlie had developed on December 31.

"Alright, we got an a here and a μ, but we don't have a w," Amita noted mumbling. "Megan?" she then turned towards the FBI agent. "Could that symbol be an omega?"

"An omega?" Megan repeated frowning. She had decided to pretend she hadn't noticed Amita's actions. "No, surely not, an omega wouldn't look –"

"Not the capital one," Amita interrupted her, "but the lowercase omega, the one Charlie used in this algorithm, looks more or less like a lowercase w, but round."

"Okay, I'll get back to you in a moment," Megan said and turned back to her radio. "Don? Is the w angular or round?"

"Is it – what? It's round, but why do you ask? Why is this taking so –"

Megan, however, had stopped listening. "It's round," she informed the two scientists, "so it could really be that omega."

"Alright, wait a second."

Megan was filled with fascination as she watched the two scientists immerse themselves in their task. She thought she could practically see the gray matter work behind their foreheads. However, she couldn't indulge herself in her fascination for long, for after a short while, the two of them looked back up at her.

"This should be it," Amita said while holding her own laptop in the field of vision of the other laptop's webcam. On the screen, you could see a coordinate system and a red arrow that had approximately a 45° angle with the x-axis. She gave Larry a brief glance who nodded with affirmation.

"53 degrees?" he asked her.

Amita nodded. "52.928 and so on."

"Well, then, we came to the same result independently, so it seems to be sound," he said to Megan. "In case you need the exact value, the angle between the x-axis and the arrow is 53 degrees."

"I already got that," Megan said smiling. "Thank you both. I'll probably get back to you later, until then, take care."

She turned towards her radio again, deliberately ignored Don's reproaches and provided them with the scientists' result. Then, she leaned back in her office chair, wondering what else there was to do for her. Other than waiting, nothing came to mind.

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"53 degrees, that's a bit more than half of a right angle."

"Woah, don't tell me your brother's genius is rubbing off on you."

"Shut up, Ian. Measuring angles is something even I can do."

"Do you? And how, if I may ask?"

Don swallowed. He hadn't thought of that. How were they supposed to get the correct angle out here in the wilderness without further tools, mathematical or otherwise? It would be far easier to just take a rough estimate, for example 45 degrees, half of a right angle, that angle should be more easily to determine. However, Don was well aware that they were dealing with a task that demanded the highest possible degree of precision of them. A deviation of eight degrees was decidedly not precise enough.

"Maybe I can help you with that," David joined their conversation. He and the rest of the other ground troop had just arrived by helicopter and now, he was holding up a small piece of plastic. A protractor.

"Where did you get that from?" Ian asked him, his eye-brows raised.

David shrugged. "I found it in the log cabin. I thought it could come in handy."

Don remained speechless with gratitude and left it for David to determine the correct angle. His own hands were trembling too much anyway.

With a pencil, David drew the line they had to follow on the stone. "Now all that we have to figure out is the stone's original position in the pi."

Everyone, that is both the two helicopter crews and the two ground troops, returned to the stony pi, and compared the direction on the stone they'd taken with them to the helicopters both with the photos they'd taken earlier and with the direction given on the other stone. Then, their journey continued.

Exhaustion was about to engulf Don, he was weary by the events and the search, but he shrugged it off. He wouldn't allow himself to show any weakness, not yet. Not as long as Charlie was still out there, counting on him.

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"You know, it's not that I flatter myself to be a remarkably good housewife, but I'm sure that my tea can't be that bad."

Alan looked up and right into Millie's big eyes that were watching him appraisingly. He tried to smile a little. "No, of course not," he reassured her and took a tiny sip of the tea that, as he realized with surprise and more than a little late, really wasn't that bad, on the contrary. Too bad it was cold by now.

"Alan," she said, taking his hand. "I don't think you should mope around the house like that."

With that, the point had been reached when Alan started to be irritated. "So what would you rather have me do? Put on a happy face and go out on parties?"

Millie considered the idea for a moment. "No," she then declared, "I don't think that would be appropriate in your time of life."

At this point, it was hard to make Alan angrier than he already was. "In my time of life or don't you rather mean in my situation, seeing that who knows what kinds of dangers my sons currently have to face?!"

Millie shrugged. "You know where they are, don't you?"

"Charlie's still missing, in case you forgot!"

"So why aren't you looking for him?"

"Because… because…" Alan stopped his angry rant when he realized he didn't have a reason for that.

"I don't mean to reproach you, Alan, not at all," Millie continued. Her tone was much softer now and much less provocative. "All I know is that you mustn't continue driving yourself crazy in here. You spend entire days next to the phone or you roam around near Fleinhardt and Ramanujan hoping to learn something of interest. That can't be good for you, Alan, trust me."

Alan thought for a moment. "So according to you, what should I do?" he asked, little hope left in his voice. He already knew that there wasn't anything to do for him, that he was useless, that he was forced to burden one of his sons with the responsibility to bring the other one back safe and sound.

"Well, I think it would be better for you to get nearer to the scene. As an observer from the first row, so to say."

"And of what use would that be?"

Millie wasn't deterred by his hopelessness. "It would make you feel a little better. And it would give you an opportunity to be with them as soon as anything changes."

Alan swallowed hard. He knew that Millie was right.

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In the afternoon, they found another pi. Despite the calculations being done over the radio, everything had worked out just fine. However, by now Don started wondering how many pis there were about to come until they would have found Charlie himself.

Larry and Amita had calculated the direction in their usual velocity and soon, the search could go on. By and by, exhaustion was becoming an overall symptom of the group, but until now, nobody was willing to stop the search before sundown.

The sun was just setting when they found the fifth pi, the third one of the day. Again, the direction was determined quickly, but when Don pushed them to go on searching, he was once again met with opposition, though this time not expressed by Ian, but by their pilot Robert Benjamin.

"Leaving aside the fact that we could all do with a snatch of sleep," the giant said, "nothing will come of a search with the helicopters, not as long as we can't see."

"But the helicopters have searchlights, don't they?" Don objected without reacting to the first argument. Sleep wasn't a priority.

"They are," Mansfield admitted, "but they won't help us much, not in our situation. Since we have to fly so low to be able to spot those stone signs, the searchlights will illuminate only a very small area. We could just as well use fireflies instead. The risk of overlooking something is just too great."

"Tomorrow, Don, alright?" Ian said calmly. "Charlie can't be far now."

Don looked around and noted that they were all of the same opinion. And all against him. Nobody would help him even though Charlie had to be so close, so close…

But hadn't he already said that last Friday, when they'd arrived here in the park? And today, it was Tuesday… No, there was no fooling himself any longer, they might be close to Charlie and getting closer to him with every day passing, but he was still one step ahead of them. One step which they would be able to gain on him easier and faster by day than by night. He surrendered.

"Alright, then let's head back to headquarters," Mansfield decided. "Get on in everyone," he told Don, Ian and the two park rangers that had accompanied them while the other ground troop followed the giant. "It could get a bit cuddly, but weight-wise that won't be a problem for our baby here."

As the helicopter ascended into the air with a deafening volume, Don looked down onto the ground that was becoming darker by the minute. Somewhere below them, there was Charlie, and it couldn't take them much longer now to find him.

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The nausea was now accompanied by another uncomfortable feeling: heat. His forehead had been burning all the time anyway ( _probably a graze_ , Charlie thought), but now, his entire head seemed to have been transformed into a cooking pot with a consistent temperature of more than 200° F; maybe that was why he felt as though his blood was boiling. Another hardly pleasant sensation was the feeling of someone having cut open his brainpan so that now it felt as though his brain was wavering about aimlessly, without sharp contours and always searching for some kind of support it couldn't find anywhere…

Charlie didn't know whether it was caused by this image or by his miserable condition, but in any case, the nausea was back on top on his list of unpleasantries.

He was aware that he had a fever. He just didn't know why. Maybe he had blood poisoning? It was hardly conceivable however, not with that little cut at his wrist, which, besides, he'd bandaged pretty effectively. On the other hand, he had apparently injured his forehead as well, and judging from the burning sensation the wound wasn't clean, so maybe it was blood poisoning after all. Maybe, however, the fever had a whole different source. Maybe his leg was to blame for that…

The moment Charlie thought of his leg, the pain increased. It was throbbing and pungent, and every now and then it gave him a painful sting. The throbbing was spreading to his overheated head and all he wanted to do was get away from here, he wanted to put his head into ice water, he wanted to do something, _anything_ , to make his leg hurt less, he just wanted to go home. He couldn't, though. No matter how much he longed to do all that, no matter how fervently he thought of those fantasies, he remained a prisoner of his broken body, a prisoner waiting to be released.

 _Where are you, Don?_

During his clear moments – which, granted, weren't all that many, because the pain would always encompass him – during those short moments that had given him the opportunity to get an overview of his situation, an unpleasant idea had settled in his mind: what if Don wouldn't come after all? Maybe he'd misunderstood Mike that time in the dugout? But he'd said, 'They're looking for us', he'd said, 'Eppes and his team are here'… How could he have gotten that wrong? He could still hear the words in his ears as though Mike had just said them. _His brother… Eppes and his team are here…_

So why weren't they coming? By now… Charlie had to concentrate hard to count the days since his escape, but it had to be three days, almost four, because the sun was setting again. Still, they hadn't found him yet. Why not? What was taking them so long? What…

 _Damn_. An invisible hand was cutting off his air supply and he didn't have difficulty giving that hand in his chest a name: panic. Maybe he'd gotten it all wrong? Maybe his trust that they would be able to decipher his clues had been entirely ill-conceived? Maybe they hadn't understood how to make use of the date he'd given them, maybe they'd used a wrong algorithm? Or even worse: maybe _he_ had used a wrong algorithm, maybe he'd been referring to erroneous data that didn't exist in the first place, thus data they'd never be able to reconstruct?

All of a sudden, Charlie was immensely tired, too tired even to let the panic engulf him. It didn't matter anymore. It didn't matter what had gotten wrong, because the fact was that something had, for something was keeping Don from finding him.

It was over. He knew that he wouldn't be able to keep holding on for much longer, but he also knew that time wasn't the decisive factor he'd been thinking that it was. He knew that if something had indeed gone wrong, if he'd made a mistake – and all the facts were pointing to it that he had – they weren't talking about a matter of a couple of hours anymore for help to arrive. For more, however, Charlie's reserves wouldn't be enough.

Charlie swallowed and the resulting pain made tears spring to his eyes. Yet, it wasn't just the pain stemming from his raw throat, but also the pain his thoughts inflicted upon him. He knew that this was it. Don wasn't going to come, not soon enough anyway. His mind was telling him that it would be more rational to give in now, to spare himself further pain. But he couldn't do that, could he? He couldn't… he didn't want to…

Before he had to finish the thought, exhaustion encompassed him again and he slipped into a feverish sleep that brought to him neither rest nor repose.

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The next morning, they were on their feet early again and started their search anew in the same configuration as the previous day. All of them were looking a little pale and not completely back to full strength, but that was something Don couldn't have consideration for today. They would find him today. Surely they would.

They started their search at the most recent pi and, as usual, focused on the more open spots in the direction Charlie had given him, the ones he knew where his pi would be spotted more easily. This time, however, they didn't find anything.

When around noon, they had already searched twice the distance that usually lay between the pis, Mansfield's co-pilot radioed Megan to make sure that the scientists' calculations were correct. Few minutes later, he got the reply that if the data was correct, the solution was correct as well. The data, on the other hand, had been thoroughly proofread once more by Megan, who hadn't been able to find any deviation between the data on the stone and the data they'd forwarded to Larry and Amita. Still, they didn't find another clue.

"So what now?" Ian asked Don when the co-pilot had forwarded them the news, or rather, the lack thereof. They'd split up their group into two groups of two a while ago in order to cover more ground, and for about the same amount of time, Don's mouth wasn't more than a thin line. Of course he hadn't missed the fact that something wasn't right here. Until now, however, he'd refused to admit that to himself. Gradually, this tactic stopped working, though.

"We have to go on with the search," he said tersely.

If Don went on like that, he might actually manage what hardly anyone had ever been able to do and make Ian lose his temper. "Of course we'll go on with the search, but where? Don, start using your head again, would you? We can't go in this direction forever."

"But that's the direction Charlie gave us."

"So what? Look, don't you realize this might actually be a good sign? Alright, so maybe Charlie had to change his direction because he had to run from a wild animal or… what do I know, but maybe we didn't find another clue because we finally caught up to him. So far, we've been focusing our search on spots where he could have built another one of those stone signs, and maybe by doing that we passed him without even noticing, maybe just as he was preparing to build another one of these. So if we're lucky, we might actually find him soon, but for that to happen you need to pull yourself together."

 _But I've got no strength left to do that!_ Don was about to shout at him, but refrained himself. He had to remain calm. They were so close, he couldn't let his emotions get the better of him now. Damn it, what was wrong with him lately?

"We're going back to the pi," he finally said and was a little surprised that the proposal didn't just sound rational, but was also conveyed in a calm, rational voice. "We're going back," he repeated as if to convince himself that they were doing the right thing. "And then we spread from the pi in different directions, similar to how we did it before we had the helicopters. And the helicopters should search an area that is at a half circle around the direction Charlie gave us."

Ian nodded slowly. That didn't sound too bad. "Alright. Let's notify the others."

Don nodded while the thoughts were tumbling over in his mind. Maybe Ian had been right. Maybe it wasn't too bad that they didn't find another pi. Maybe it did mean that they were indeed getting closer to Charlie now. Even though Don had some difficulty grasping a clear thought in the chaotic mess his mind presented to him, one thing seemed so clear to him now he had to wonder how he could ever have doubted it: Charlie had to be somewhere close.


	46. The End

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1  
 **A/N:** Don't panic, the story's status is still set on "In-Progress".

* * *

46\. The End

The other members of their search party agreed with Don's proposal. "We'll just have to coordinate which routes each of the helicopters is going to fly," David said. "To avoid that we cover the same ground twice, or that we miss certain areas completely."

"You should radio Megan so she can ask our people back home if they can come up with something," Colby proposed to the pilots. He smiled a rueful grin. "They usually come up with something to make your day easier. You'd be surprised."

Benjamin nodded. "We'll do that. But enough talking, let's get going!"

That kind of dynamism didn't hold for long, at least not among the ground troops. The past days were taking their toll, and the upcoming search promised to be tedious, and yet they knew they should cover as much ground in as little time as possible.

In order to minimize the risk of overlooking something, they had split up into teams of two again and had thus wandered off in four different directions. With Larry's and Amita's help, they had divided the area in four separate zones, one for each pair. To cover that, however, they soon had to pursue a cumbersome, zigzagged route, which was holding them back a lot. Yet, it was the only possibility to make sure not to overlook anything of importance.

Don secretly set his hopes on the helicopters although at the same time, he knew that he couldn't rely solely on them and would never dare to put all his eggs in one basket. Especially if Ian was right and if there wasn't a new pi, if they were so close to Charlie now that they could stop searching for signs and start searching for him, the probability increased that they would find what they were looking for not in open spaces, but for instance in the forest. And here, that much was clear to Don, the helicopters were at a major disadvantage.

Every half hour or so, they got into contact with the other teams, either directly if possible or via the helicopters, but every time they only exchanged the same result over and over again: nothing. Charlie had once again vanished from the face of the earth.

The afternoon became evening without them finding anything. The lower the sun sank, the more the desperation inside Don grew, and the less warmth remained of the dwindling day, the more his gut was filled with an anxious feeling of coldness.

"We should let it be for today," Ian said, a hint of warning in his voice.

Don shook his head even though he knew that his colleague was right. "He has to be somewhere close," he objected in a strange tone, one that held both desperation and stubbornness and resignation. "We're going to continue the search for as long as it takes us to find him."

Ian was silent. He realized that this was difficult for Don. The strangest thing however was that he himself didn't feel as self-assured in this situation as he usually did. Usually, he wouldn't have hesitated to tell Don in no uncertain ways what he thought of his behavior, or to share his deliberations with him. Now, however, as he saw his friend in this state of obvious desperation… Ian could hardly believe it, but he didn't have the heart to do it. He couldn't tell Don to just accept today's results and stop moping, and neither could he ask him whether it hadn't occurred to him yet that it might very well be that Charlie wasn't in this park anymore. After all, Rosenthal was still at large, maybe accompanied by accomplices. It could very well be that Charlie had fallen back into their hands, even though his math signs indicated that he'd had some degree of liberty for a while, and that this hadn't been too long ago.

Still, they couldn't know how his situation had changed since he'd built those signs. And still, even though they thought they were close, they had to make sure that they weren't working themselves to exhaustion, that they were pacing themselves.

"Don, we should really get going now," Ian repeated.

Don was still shaking his head and put his hands to his mouth. "Charlie!" he started shouting while continuing to walk through the forest in a rather aimless manner. "Charlie!"

To Ian, it seemed as though Don was deliberately doing anything he could possibly do regardless of any concerns for logic, just so that he wouldn't have to blame himself later. He had his doubts that it was going to work. He had a distinct feeling that Don would blame himself either way.

He took a closer look at him. Don looked weary, and beyond reason. He still had to realize though that they had to act rationally, right? That working themselves to exhaustion just so they wouldn't have a reason to reproach themselves wasn't an effective way of helping Charlie?

"Don, there's nothing more we can do here."

Don didn't even seem to have heard him. "Charlie!" he continued calling, his voice becoming more strident.

Slowly, Ian got a little worried. This whole situation had to be putting more of a strain on Don than either of them could imagine. Now, after days of stoic silence, this strain was making itself known.

"Don –" Ian started without having the slightest clue of what he was going to say. This was definitely not something he was good at, and he felt way out of his comfort zone when he laid a hand on Don's shoulder.

Don roughly shook it off. "Charlie!" he continued calling, again and again. "CHARLIE!"

That was enough. Before Don continued losing himself further, Ian firmly grabbed his shoulders and turned him around so that Don was now forced to look Ian in the eye. Or rather, the other way round, for what Ian saw in his friend's eyes made him stumble a step backwards. There wasn't just an unusual amount of moisture in those eyes, but also such deep desperation, a pain Ian had never seen in them before, that it took his breath away. He instinctively loosened his grip, and after some tense, motionless seconds with words hanging in the air between them unspoken, Don turned away and continued stumbling through the forest.

Just when Ian thought that the worst was over, Don managed to shock him even more when his knees hit the ground. Feeling an amount of compassion he wouldn't have believed himself capable of, Ian stared at the back of his friend who was sitting slumped on the forest ground, an incarnation of a picture of misery.

Ian didn't dare moving. All he did was listening to Don's mumbled calls for Charlie and his helpless question, "Where are you?"

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Night was approaching and they still hadn't found anything. By now, David and Colby were wondering if they were indeed following the right strategy by following those pi signs. On the other hand, it was clear that Charlie had built them, so it was clear that he'd been here, so following those signs they had at least some guarantee on being on or at least near the right track. The only question was why they still hadn't been able to find Charlie himself and what had made them lose his trace in the first place.

"You heard that?" Colby suddenly asked his partner. He'd halted and his hand was slightly raised.

David frowned. He hadn't heard a thing. Well, nothing other than the usual rustles of the trees and the kind. On the other hand, during the time they'd worked together, he'd learned to trust his partner, and therefore he stood motionlessly, listening to the wilderness.

Eventually, he heard it, too. It had to be far away, but loud enough for even Colby and him to understand the words being shouted out into the wilderness. "Charlie!" they heard it again, and to David, it seemed as though it sounded another bit louder and another bit more desperate than the last time. And despite the voice being too far away to really figure out whom it belong to, David was sure that he guessed correctly when he suspected his boss.

They looked at each other, having lapsed into an uneasy silence. They couldn't find any words to say though, so they just continued listening into the silence, but without hearing anything else.

"Maybe we should…" David started, but only continued when he'd summoned up enough courage to verbalize his proposal, "Maybe we should… I don't know, look after him?"

For a moment, Colby stared past David, into emptiness, then he shook his head. "Ian's with him," he calmed both of them down. "And Don would have our heads if we stopped looking for Charlie because of him."

David nodded, but didn't say anything. At the beginning, he'd been amazed at how calmly Don had reacted to everything that had happened since Charlie's 'arrest'. Thanks to his boss's occasional outbursts however, he'd soon realized that deep down, he was much more troubled that he was letting on.

"We should also try to contact the other teams soon," Colby said. "It's about time to head back."

David nodded thoughtfully, casting a glance at the sun that was just setting behind the trees. It wouldn't be light for much longer now.

He turned his gaze away from the sun and back to their route and stopped short. He was almost certain, there'd been something that didn't belong here, a splotch of color. He'd seen it only out of the corners of his eye and wasn't entirely sure, but maybe, maybe…

He turned his head back towards the splotch and held his breath. He hadn't been mistaken. There _was_ something that didn't belong here!

"Colby, over there!"

Before his partner even looked in that direction, David had already started running. He hadn't been mistaken, over there, at the foot of the cliff, there was lying something. No, not something – _someone!_

"Charlie?!"

The figure on the ground was within hearing range now, but it didn't react. Few moments later, David had reached it. He could hear Colby behind him drew in air sharply. He had no trouble relating to that.

It _was_ Charlie. He was lying there on the ground in front of them, in the middle of scree, more or less protected by the cliff behind him. It looked as if there had been a small landslide and as though Charlie had gotten right into the middle of it. His clothes were partially torn, his bare feet bloody and his whole body covered with dirt and dust. Still, they could see that under that layer of dirt and dust, Charlie's face was alarmingly pale, except for the flushed cheeks.

His eyes were closed. On the left side of his forehead, there was a long cut caked with blood. His lips were chapped, apparently he hadn't had fluids in quite some time. David held out a trembling hand that touched Charlie's shoulder, shaking him. A couple of small stones fell from his body, but other than that, there was no reaction.

"He's warm," David said to his partner. His voice was hoarse. He wasn't sure whether the warmth of Charlie's body was indeed as meaningful as he hoped it was, or if it was simply caused by the sun shining on the animate and the lifeless alike.

The two federal agents swallowed hard. Colby was watching his partner, tense and without breathing, as David made himself extend his shaking hand towards Charlie's carotid artery.

Was there something? He wasn't sure. His hand was shaking so hard that he could hardly feel anything. Besides, even if he felt something, he wasn't sure whether he should trust his senses or if they were just being tricked by the desperate hope inside him. For Charlie just had to be alive, he –

His own heart was breathing quickly enough for two when Colby's voice startled him. "He's alive?"

David swallowed. Then he nodded.

"Yeah."

His voice didn't sound like his and he had to summon up all his self-command in order to continue going through the check list. As he bent over Charlie, he waited for an anxious second until he could feel an almost imperceptible waft of air and, at the same time, immense relief.

"He's breathing," he added in that strange voice.

Only now did he hear his partner's gasp of relief behind him and he thought that they probably both closed their eyes for a moment before they forced themselves to focus on what had to be done now.

While David tried to keep Charlie stable and to bring him back to consciousness, Colby called for help over the radio. The GPS device in his hand proved to be a blessing, for this way he could tell the helicopter team their exact location, which would save valuable time.

When Colby had finished the call, he took a deep breath before taking the radio back up. He knew that Don would react much less calmly than his last conversation partner.

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When Don's radio made its presence known, his heart started beating wildly, torn between the hope that maybe, just maybe someone had found something, and the fear that they were just trying to coordinate their return to base.

"Don? It's Colby. We… we found him."

Don was sure that his heart stopped beating altogether now. He didn't even notice that he was back sitting on the ground.

"How… where…"

He couldn't even form a complete sentence. He tried to pull himself together, to bring order to his thoughts. He failed.

Colby, however, understood him nonetheless. "He's alive, but he's unconscious. I already called for help, they should be here in thirty to sixty minutes, depending on where they can land."

Don closed his eyes. He was alive. Charlie was alive.

"Where are you?"

There was roaring sound in his ears, and maybe that was why his voice sounded so strange to him.

Colby gave him the coordinates and Don looked down at his GPS device. For some seconds, all he saw was a tangle of lines and numbers that didn't mean anything to him. He tried to win his focus back. They had him now. They had found Charlie. They had found him, and he was alive.

"We're close to you," Don finally realized. "We'll be with you soon. We're… we're going to be there soon."

"Yeah, we'll be waiting."

They ended the call and Don briefly closed his eyes, taking in a shaky breath. _We found him. We found him, and he's alive_ , he silently repeated the words, but somehow they couldn't really get through to him. He still couldn't fathom them, not as long as he hadn't seen with his own eyes that Charlie was okay.

 _But who says that he's 'okay'? How can he be okay if he's unconscious? He's probably hurt, he must be hurt, and who knows how badly…_

"Don?"

Ian had laid a hand on his shoulder and managed to pull Don out of his anxious thoughts far enough to make him stand and get going. They had to get going now, they were so close…

Since they had indeed been very close to Colby's position, it took Ian and Don less than fifteen minutes to find the place. They could see David and Colby when they were still at some distance. Them and the motionless body on the ground between them.

Don fell into a jog, but only after a couple of steps, he was running across the uneven terrain. Ian was much more careful than him and much more rational, following at some yards' distance, but for Don, this wasn't a time to have considerations about his own health or safety, not at the sight he was confronted with.

An instant later, he was kneeling next to David, whose presence he hardly acknowledged. All he was aware of, all that was important right now, was Charlie's face in front of him, pale and covered with dust. Except for the feverish flush on his cheeks, it seemed to be entirely void of blood, maybe it had all seeped through the wound a little above his temple… He had his eyes closed. He was looking so peaceful, like he was… And his lips were chapped and torn open, they seemed to be just as dry as the dust that had settled on his whole body and that was covering him like a natural blanket, as though he had been covered up, as though… Don swallowed hard. He was alive. They'd said he was alive. He had to be alive.

But how could he be alive when he was looking so lifeless, so…

"Is he –" His voice failed him.

"He's alive, Don," David assured him. "His pulse is weak, but he's alive."

Don nodded and tried to say something, but found that he couldn't, just like he couldn't keep the tears from running down his cheeks. He laid a hand on Charlie's cheek as though that would bring him back to consciousness, but of course it was in vain.

He took a shaking breath before he forced himself to look not only at his brother's dead-white face, but also at the rest of his body. His T-shirt and the shirt he was wearing over that were torn in several places, probably by all the shrubs he must have fought his way through. At his wrist, Don could see another badly healed wound, it seemed to have exuded pus. Again, he swallowed hard.

"We need to get some fluids into him," Don decided, not sure if he'd really just said that himself. He felt strangely disconnected from his own body.

"We can't do that, we have no equipment. We'll have to wait for the medics." Don almost turned around. Ian's voice was so quiet and soft that he wasn't entirely sure if it was really him. However, he didn't really care right now.

"We have to help him _now_ ," he argued. He was still looking into that pale, dust-covered face, still trying not to be overwhelmed by emotion. They'd come so far, they had found him and he was alive. They couldn't lose him now.

"We need some fluids," he repeated. "We need to wake him up."

While he was staring into Charlie's lifeless face, a water bottle was handed to him from the right. He took it and at the same time gently lifted Charlie's upper body with his other hand. More hands were helping him, one of them opening the water bottle. Slowly and carefully, Don tilted it, bathing his brother's forehead with the cool liquid.

"Come on, Charlie, wake up," he whispered, unaware of anything else around them, seeing only his brother's now slightly muddy face, hoping he would finally open his eyes.

He didn't.

He tilted the bottle again, this time letting some water trickle through Charlie's parted lips.

"Careful," a voice said behind him, but then it was already too late.

Charlie was coming back to life, though not in the manner Don had been hoping for. It wasn't a gentle awakening, not one showing improvement, but a painful startle caused by the fear of having to suffocate. The water must have entered Charlie's trachea, and now his lungs were trying to keep the unwanted intruder away from them.

Don put the water bottle away to have another hand to support Charlie's upper body and keep him upright, something his brother hadn't the strength to do on his own. He was coughing, but the coughs were so weak they were hardly effective. With several hands Don didn't really know whom they belonged to, Charlie's torso was kept in the right position to ease the process of letting the water leave his body again.

Don could see Charlie's eyelids jerk and watched them anxiously. Now, they would surely open, anytime now, right? However, he also noticed that Charlie's facial expressions had become contorted with pain.

Don bit his lip. He felt incredibly useless. His brother was obviously in agony, and there wasn't a single thing he could do about that.

In a hopeless and desperate attempt to make the pain somehow bearable after all, Don laid his hand back on his cheek. And indeed, Charlie opened his eyes.

"Hey, Charlie," Don whispered through unshed tears.

Charlie's eyes took a moment before they focused on his brother. A hoarse croak that sounded like 'Don' came out of his mouth, and a peaceful smile spread across his face, seeming grotesque through the lines of pain.

The smile sent shivers down Don's spine and he was about to panic. He couldn't explain why, but that smile and the look in Charlie's eyes hit him harder than everything else in his brother's appearance, because it was a look that seemed to be telling him good-bye. That was something Don couldn't let happen.

"It'll be okay, Charlie, alright? Just hang in there. The medevac chopper will be here soon."

He clenched his teeth. Charlie's eyes had disappeared under heavy lids, but only halfway. They were still open wide enough for Don to see that look. He tried to focus on something else, he tried to find something to say to his brother, but his mind was empty.

"Are you in pain?" _Of course he's in pain, damn it, a blind person can see that!_

With a voice that was nothing but a hoarse croak, Charlie whispered something that sounded like 'leg'. Following an uneasy inkling, Don let his gaze wander down his brother's figure and immediately found the inkling confirmed: what he'd only noticed marginally before, the twisted leg, had to be injured in one way or another; maybe it was broken or dislocated. In any case it seemed to be inflicting hardly bearable pain upon Charlie. Maybe he'd been in pain for the past who knew how long, maybe it had only started hurting that badly again when the coughing had made him move slightly, Don didn't know. All he knew was that he had to do something to ease Charlie's agony.

"Hey, listen… We've already called for help, they're on their way. Okay? Everything's going to be fine."

The tears in Don's eyes revealed that he wasn't entirely convinced of the accuracy of his own words. Once more, he stroked Charlie's cheek, and at that moment the question hit him what would happen if he was wrong, if everything wasn't going to be fine. True, they'd finally found Charlie, but he didn't look good, so not good…

All he could do now, however, was to hope. The helicopter had to be here any second now. They would be here soon.

Hopefully not too late.

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Charlie couldn't get any air in. He panicked, but at the same time, his reflexes kicked in making him cough, and when a few seconds later he realized that he had almost suffocated, the danger was already over. There was air in his trachea and nothing but air, nothing that didn't belong there.

As the panic receded, the pain came back. It just wouldn't stop, there was always that agony, that hardly bearable pain…

There were other sensations, too, however, new sensations. He could feel something touch his body, living beings, not just senseless rock. And then, just when the pain would have reached its peak, it was relieved just slightly when his attention was averted by the touch on his cheek. A hand. A human hand.

It was cool and it was a blessing on his hot face. He felt an indescribable urge to learn whom it belonged to, who that benefactor was, that despite the drowning exhaustion, he forced himself to open his eyes.

The light was unbelievingly bright. He thought his nerves were about to explode from the intensity, but after a few seconds of blinking, it slowly got better. Ironically, however, it was now his ears and not his eyes that gave him another sensation to occupy his mind with.

"Hey, Charlie," a voice was saying, and it took him a while to realize that someone was talking to him. He tried to recognize the speaker, but the light was still too bright and only gradually, contours were shaping in the white, an outline that eventually was supplemented by a blurry face.

"Don," Charlie whispered and at the same moment wondered if it had really been him to say that. It wasn't just the fact that this voice didn't sound like him, to tell the truth, it hardly sounded like a human voice at all. No, he also had difficulty to relate that voice to himself because he wasn't quite clear on where or what his self was; he felt strangely disconnected from his body.

 _So this is dying_ , he thought, and curiously enough, there was nothing frightening about that thought. Why should there be? He was finally coming home. His brain even gave him the perception of Don's company, so why should he mind? He knew that Don's blurry figure before his eyes wasn't real, that he couldn't be real. He'd been hoping for so long for him to come, all his hope in vain, and deep inside, he knew that now, it was too late for him to come. He was aware of that, he was aware that this was just a way of his subconscious to make this easier for him, and he was thankful for that. If he was dying, then this was the way to go, with Don at his side, with the one person in this world he had always looked up to, the one person he'd always drawn his strength from. Don was the one who would give him the strength to make this last journey.

There was the pain again, the pain that was stronger than himself. He couldn't push it aside, but he took consolation in the fact that it would soon be over now. Soon, it wouldn't hurt anymore. And he wasn't alone with this, Don was with him, he was there, and he wouldn't leave him, that was all that Charlie knew, and it was all that he could wish for. It would end, here and now. Strangely, the thought filled him with tranquility, with an immensely deep peace that made a smile appear on his lips. No, there wasn't anything to be afraid of anymore. All the struggles of life had come to an end.

It was good.


	47. Freefalling

**Disclaimer:** There's a description of a scene in there that is taken from 2-22 Backscatter. For all the rest, see chapter 1.  
 **A/N:** Sorry for the delay, but instead of translating, I made it a priority to sleep for more than six hours a night at least once this week.

* * *

47\. Freefalling

Don was still immersed in the pitiful sight his immobile brother presented to him with those fine lines of agony still on his face. Don's thoughts were simple, but too fundamental and his mind too busy to get to grips with this situation to register anything else in his surroundings.

It was very sudden for him when he was edged aside. He stood on wobbly legs and as his numbness melted away from him, he was drowned by a multitude of badly mixed sensations. His blood was rushing in his ears, making the voices of the people around him sound like a hotchpotch of murmurs. Anyway, it seemed that all his blood was located here right now, in his head, for it felt unbearably hot. He could taste salt on his lips and only then realized that he was sweating. His breathing was heavy and laborious, the sound of it mixing with the rushing of the blood. The most unbearable sensation, however, was the one his eyes provided him with.

Charlie was still lying before him motionlessly, only that now, Don's view was partially blocked by the paramedics that were tending to him. He was only half aware of the questions they asked him, questions that were answered by his team members. His own mind was far too busy watching their swift, almost hectic movements. What did those well attuned maneuvers, those serious, focused expressions mean? How bad was Charlie? Would they be able to help him?

When the paramedics put him on a stretcher, Don, for the first time, became really and fully aware of how lifeless his brother looked like. Like a puppet with no will of its own, a puppet bearing not even the slightest touch of life.

The next sensation washing over him, the nausea, brought him back to reality. And now, finally, his sense of determination was re-ascending from the depths of his sorrowful thoughts.

"Can I come with him?" he heard himself say as through a mile long tunnel. At least he thought it had been him to say that, he couldn't be sure though, for the voice that was talking still wasn't his.

It was only now that Don started paying attention to the paramedics. They were three men, two of them carrying the stretcher on which Charlie was lying, the third one holding a plastic bag with a fluid that was running through a cannula into a vein of Charlie's arm.

"Are you a family member?" the one with the plastic bag asked, while the three – no, the _four_ men – hastily approached the helicopter.

Don nodded. "He's my brother," he managed to form the words despite his constricted throat as he was walking along the men hopefully.

He was lucky. "Then come on," the paramedic told him, pushing the bag with fluid in his hand. Don didn't have to be told twice.

After a couple of yards, he glanced back at David, Colby and Ian. It only now occurred to him that he couldn't just leave here, not without giving orders of how they should proceed now.

David, however, seemed to be reading his mind. "We're going to take care of everything here," he called out to him before Don had even opened his mouth. Don nodded silently, continuing to walk to the helicopter along the paramedics. They took off as soon as they had all managed to squeeze in.

Due to his job, this wasn't Don's first ride on a helicopter, but he didn't need time to deliberate to know that it was his worst one so far. The colors on Charlie's face were still sufficiently unnatural to upset him, and even though lines of pain had etched into it, Charlie seemed disquietingly quiet in his motionless stiffness. As though he had already slipped into eternal slumber.

Don shook his head without even noticing. He couldn't think like that. He forbade himself to think like that.

 _But what if…_ An icy shudder ran down Don's spine. What if Charlie actually didn't make it?

Don's guts convulsed, forming a knot that was making him nauseous. He couldn't imagine that. He couldn't imagine a world without his brother, he couldn't imagine what it would look like or how it was ever supposed to function. It just couldn't be, it was… unimaginable. Panic-inducing.

Horrible.

A sudden movement made Don jolt out of his thoughts. One of the paramedics had bumped into him slightly and was now lifting his hand apologetically. Don hardly noticed, but still the movement had managed to turn his attention back to reality.

The flight seemed endless. Don tried not to constantly glance at his wristwatch. It probably would have been a lot harder if Charlie's pale and at the same time flushed face hadn't mesmerized him. Every now and then, the paramedics threw short scraps of conversation at each other, but Don didn't understand them. That might have been caused by the volume inside the chopper, but chances were that he wouldn't have understood them even in the deep silence of a vault, not in the state his mind was in.

His thoughts wandered back to happier times, and the knot in his stomach became less hard, less nauseating. He could see a vivid version of his brother, he remembered the times they'd managed to work together side by side, when life had been so good they hadn't even realized it in its normalcy. It seemed as though his mind was trying to make him escape the disquieting questions of the future, even though he was well aware that they would come back to him with a vengeance, providing him with the relief caused by his memory of the past, of happy memories. Now, however, even his memories were starting to lose their jauntiness.

„ _Explain how a mathematician ends up in a case involving the Russian Mob?!"_

 _Alan was angry, but that was nothing compared to the anger that had taken a hold of his sons._

" _I told him to drop it!" Don justified himself by – rightly! – putting his brother in the pillory._

" _You know he can't just drop that stuff!" Sure, when had their father ever_ _not_ _taken Charlie's side!_

 _Don's reply was just as upset, especially since Charlie decided to put in his two cents as well now. That was the signal that Don needed to transfer all the anger that his fear had built up inside him on someone else. "Charlie, did I tell you to drop it?" Yes, he had told him, he had told him and Charlie couldn't have cared less, he had simply ignored Don's orders! How was he ever supposed to keep his family safe with his own brother acting that way? "You endangered yourself and you endangered Dad!" He hardly noticed that he became increasingly aggressive._

" _Well you lied to me!"_

 _So what?! Did Charlie really not get it?! "Yeah, to protect you!"_

A brief silence had ensued, which, however, hadn't been long enough to let them bring order to their thoughts and feelings and settle the argument. For Charlie still hadn't understood. He still hadn't had the slightest clue why Don had found it necessary to lie to him then. It was only now that Don realized that he hadn't really understood it himself at that time. All he'd known was that he couldn't have borne to see something happen to his younger brother and to know that it was just because the Russian Mob had found a link between him and the FBI's investigation. At that time, Don hadn't known – and much less had Charlie known – how much his little brother meant to him. It was only now that Don realized that what had made him lie at his brother back then had been love, and that love may have also been the reason why his mind had worked too insufficiently to realize that his lie couldn't protect him.

Now, Don had no difficulty knowing that what he felt towards his brother was love, the feeling being so strong in him that it hurt. Now, it seemed incomprehensible that he hadn't seen it all along, that he had let all his feelings of affection be buried deep inside him while he'd let others come to the surface, other emotions that had seemed so much stronger at the time.

" _She's dead."_ _His voice was hard._

 _Charlie, his face of a color which it seemed to have adopted from the chalk in his hand, whirled around to look at him. He looked as though he hadn't slept in days, but since it wasn't any different with his dad and himself, Don's pity for him was very limited. To tell the truth, it currently went beyond his strength to feel any pity for Charlie at all._

" _You're happy now?" he snapped at his little brother, and the hatred he could hear in his own voice gave him a certain satisfaction that almost managed to drown the indescribable pain._

 _He saw Charlie shake his head almost imperceptibly, which only served to increase his anger. "So what now? Huh, what now? You're gonna crawl back and hide in your stupid pi versus pi thing? I promise you, Dad and I won't try to stop you anymore! And I don't care whether you solve it or not or whatever you do, for no matter what you do, it's too late for Mom now!"_

 _Charlie was still staring at him through those big, reddened eyes of his. Don turned away. He couldn't look at him now. He couldn't be in the same room with him now. His hatred against his brother, against the one person in this world who was just as much a son to his mom as himself and who had let her down nonetheless during her last days and hours, was so much stronger than everything else, even stronger than the grief. Maybe, however, the grief was just part of that anger he felt against him. In any case, his emotions were strong enough to make Don storm out of the garage and slam the door shut behind him._

Again, Don felt tears of anger come to his eyes, but this time, the anger wasn't nearly as strong, and more importantly, it was directed against himself. He hadn't understood Charlie's reaction back then, he hadn't understood why his brother had sealed himself off from them all while his mother had been in dire need of his support. To tell the truth, Don still didn't understand it, not even after all these years. However, by now he understood that each of them had dealt with the situation in a different way. Charlie's way, little surprisingly, had been math, and instead of trying to come to terms with that coping mechanism, his dad and himself – _primarily me_ , Don corrected himself, a lump in his throat – had put immense pressure upon Charlie.

It had been months after their mom's funeral until Don had begun to realize that Charlie himself wasn't proud of his way of handling everything, but it was only now that he began to understand what it was like when emotion was clouding one's judgment, when the fear of losing a loved one was taking a hold of you and there was nothing you could do or think about to keep that fear away from you. Nothing but math. Or the past.

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Megan looked around, feeling a bit insecure. She wasn't entirely sure whether she was dreaming, for somehow, nothing was going as usual today. First, Larry had told her that apparently Alan was on his way to meet them in the park, something which Megan hadn't been able to believe at first. Then, however, believing hadn't been necessary anymore, for Alan had suddenly been standing right there in the log cabin. She still hadn't recovered from the shock when she got a call over the radio and Mansfield spoke the words for which she'd been waiting for two weeks now, "We found him."

She forced herself to make further necessary inquiries before disconnecting the call. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply.

"Are you okay, Alan?" she then asked, her voice thin, turning towards him. A moment later, she realized that she wouldn't have been able to answer that question herself.

Alan had heard the conversation perfectly, it was obvious. His complexion had become a shade or two paler, and apart from the vehement trembling of his hands, he was sitting motionless, rigid.

"They found him," he said, his voice thin, almost broken, as though he expected Megan to contradict him. There was no contradiction, though. It was true. They had found Charlie. And he was alive.

"Where is he?" Alan asked. He assumed that Megan knew, that she'd paid attention to all the necessary information while he had been deafened by a roaring sound as soon as his ears had heard the one information that was vital for him.

"In the hospital, in Billings. Or rather that's where they'll be taking him."

Alan nodded and stood. Megan was filled with utter uneasiness as she watched the father of the Eppes brothers walk towards the door on unsteady legs. "Where are you going?"

"To find them."

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Amita was getting nowhere. She was busy preparing the final exams for her courses. The final exams that were getting closer with undiminished velocity. Strangely however, the stress and the knowledge on being behind in her schedule didn't make her feel the panic she would have felt under different circumstances.

No. The panic that she felt lay deeper, far deeper inside her, and it wasn't caused by finals.

Not even now that time to prepare was running out she managed to focus on her task. Every few seconds, her eyes flew away from her laptop or her notes and towards the phone or towards the other laptop, the one with the built-in webcam. Megan, however, didn't call. They still hadn't found Charlie.

She wondered whether Alan had arrived already. Prior to his leaving, he'd offered them to stay in Charlie's house, but that would have exceeded what Amita was currently capable of. Instead, she was now sitting in her office at CalSci, along with Larry, Preparing for finals.

For about the hundredth time, she wondered if there really wasn't anything she and Larry could do. No matter how often she pondered the question, however, nothing would come to her mind to make the search more practicable while still making sure that they wouldn't overlook anything. Sure, there were areas the likelihood of Charlie being there was greater than in other areas, and of course there were areas that were more easily accessible and that thus should be checked first in an optimal search. This, however, wasn't an optimal situation, and Charlie's life and health were of too great an importance to resume to mathematical baubles.

But what if there was a way to optimize the search and they just couldn't see it…

Amita's laptop rang. This time, it wasn't a video conference, but just a normal phone conversation over the internet.

"Megan?" Amita asked, filled with hope yet again, as she and Larry bent down over the laptop.

"Yes," the confirmation came. "Is Larry there with you, Amita?"

"I'm here," Larry himself answered.

"Good. Good. Because we've got some news." Megan took a deep breath. "They found him."

The world started spinning and Amita had to close her eyes. When she opened them again, she could see out of the corners of her eyes that the knuckles of her hand that had gripped the table in a desperate need for support were shining white, almost as white as Larry's face, who was looking at her with big eyes.

"Everything alright over there?" they could hear Megan's voice from the laptop.

Amita couldn't answer, so she was glad that Larry could. "Yes, we… we're…" However, instead of finding words for something he probably didn't know himself what it was, he asked the one question that had priority over everything else, "How is he?"

The one second that passed before Megan answered was pure hell. "Apparently he was conscious only for a short time," she then said, "and he wasn't responsive. They took him to the closest hospital by helicopter. That's all that I know so far."

Larry, too, wasn't able to form words for a moment, but he recovered himself relatively quickly and enough to at least make himself understood, albeit in a voice that was even thinner and rougher than usual. "Is he going to make it?"

An instant later, he felt like slapping himself in the face, not only because Amita looked as though she was about to faint, but also because he'd realized that he too was everything but sure whether he really wanted to hear the answer to that question. On the other hand, it seemed worse to stay in this state of uncertainty.

"I don't know."

Megan seemed to understand how awful her words sounded, for she hastily added, "But I think that he's going to be okay. Apparently he didn't have too severe injuries, maybe he's just exhausted and dehydrated…" She cleared her throat. "Anyway, I'll keep you posted."

Larry nodded before he realized that Megan could neither see nor hear that. It took him a while to translate the sign into an "alright". They said their goodbyes and Larry turned back to Amita, who, as he noticed with some uneasiness, was still white as a sheet, although she seemed to keep it together remarkably well, if Larry was judging that correctly.

"I… I'll be right back," she whispered. Her tears hadn't broken free yet, but her voice bespoke of hardly suppressed emotions as she hurried out of the door. Larry stared after her, not sure whether he should follow her, but without any strength to do that even if he wanted to.

So he stayed behind, utterly overwhelmed with the information he'd just received. For some minutes, he just sat there, not doing anything, not thinking, not feeling anything, or at least nothing he could have described in hindsight.

He didn't know what to do now. He couldn't just get up, hop on the next train or plane and follow Alan to Idaho or Wyoming – even though it seemed to be the only reasonable thing to do at this point. Of course, however, he knew that he couldn't do that, that he just had to wait here and wait for further information. He just had to wait for a little longer. They were used to doing that by now.

A nagging thought crept to his consciousness from the back of his mind, ignoring all the obstacles Larry put in his way and forcing him to draw the correct conclusions from the information he'd learned so far, from Charlie's rescue, but also from the poor state he'd been in. The thought was there and wouldn't let itself be ignored, but Larry just didn't want to admit for the possibility of Charlie's death. At least he didn't want to think about it. For it couldn't be, right? No, it just couldn't, because –

Larry's flying gaze fell upon his notes. Final exams. Just a few hours earlier, he'd wondered whether it wouldn't be possible to go a little beyond what was required in number three, not for the exam, of course, but for his own research. He'd thought that there was something more to get out of that subject, there were unresolved issues…

Suddenly, Larry had a pen and a paper in his hands and started filling the material with physical formulas, expanding his thoughts. Eventually, he succeeded: the task was mesmerizing him, giving him something to hold onto to make him less lost, to keep him from facing a problem that not only was beyond his abilities to solve, but that also influenced his life more substantially than the solution to the problem in number three.


	48. The Ruthlessness of Time

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1  
 **A/N:** I'm so sorry about the delay (again). I am trying though, it's just been a crazy couple of weeks.

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48\. The Ruthlessness of Time

It was as though he had lost his ability to make decisions of his own. During the ride with the helicopter, he'd assumed the role of the silent observer. He had followed the paramedic's orders – _hold this, step aside please –_ , but apart from that, he had been living in a world of his own, in the world of his memories. Those memories and his fearful thoughts about the future were taking a hold of him even now, after they had landed and the paramedics had told him to wait here.

Several minutes had passed before Don even noticed that he was still standing motionlessly in front of the doors leading to the emergency department. Only gradually, he managed to free himself from his stupor. For a moment, he thought he could feel an irresistible urge to walk up and down the hallway, but then he realized how badly his legs were trembling. He had to let himself sink onto one of the plastic seats.

Automatically, he glanced at his watch as though it could tell him when the medics would come out and explain to him what was wrong with Charlie. A few seconds later, he realized that he still didn't know what time it was, and he gave the face another glance. Half past eight. He was satisfied with the answer for a moment before it occurred to him that he still didn't know whether it was half past eight in the morning or half past eight in the evening. Then he remembered that they had just been about to go back to the log cabin when they'd found him. It had to be evening then. Could it really still be only evening?

Moaning softly, Don buried his head in his hands. It hurt. He closed his eyes, massaging his temples, but unfortunately that didn't help much. Sleep was probably the only thing that would help. Sleep, however, was impossible in Don's agitated state.

He took some deep breaths, trying to get his pulse back down to a more normal level, and opened his eyes again. He was still supporting his head with hands that were covering his mouth and nose as though they were trying to keep him from crying for help. Or from vomiting. His eyes were fixated on the gray wall opposite from him, seeing only Charlie's ashen face and the lines of pain in it.

How long had he been lying there like that? Ian had said that his last pi had been built prior to the storm Sunday night. They had found Charlie in a place that was at least roughly in the direction his pi had pointed them, so it seemed safe to presume that they hadn't overlooked another pi. That in turn suggested that it had been sometime Monday when Charlie had ended his involuntary journey in this even more involuntary manner.

Don's eyes widened and his breathing stopped for a moment when he realized what that meant. Monday. Charlie had been lying there in the middle of those rocks since Monday – and today was Wednesday, Wednesday evening to be exact! Charlie had been lying there helplessly for more than _two days_ , in pain, always hoping, wishing for someone to find him…

Don buried his face in his hands again. He could no longer see the gray of the wall opposite, but he could still see the gray of Charlie's face.

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Alan paid the taxi driver and was extremely generous in tipping him, which might have been caused by his being too impatient to wait for the change. He hurried to the front desk where he didn't get any information other than directions to the emergency room.

He saw Don and stood abruptly. He couldn't go on. The hallway's walls were spinning around him. He put out his hand, it touched something hard, he leaned against it. Slowly, the spinning receded, but the fear and that awful premonition remained. He knew. He'd known all along, he just hadn't wanted to admit it to himself. He could see it in the way Don was sitting there, his hand buried in his hands. A gesture of desperation.

Of grief.

He knew. It was obvious. And it was simple, trivial, as Charlie would have said. The only thing wrong with it was that it couldn't be, it couldn't be true…

Alan swallowed hard. He didn't want to believe it, and he wouldn't believe it, not before he had heard it from Don's own mouth. On trembling knees, he approached his eldest son, cautious, as if he was trying to keep his presence undetected, as if he was trying to prevent Don from actually uttering those words.

"Don –"

He'd meant to ask the question at once, short and sweet, or at least short. Now, however, when Don was looking up at him, giving him that empty gaze, he just couldn't do it anymore.

Don's eyes were dry, but red-rimmed, and an expression entered his eyes that was both full of disbelief and full of hope. "Dad," he whispered, and for an instant, Alan had the impression that this wasn't his son.

They took comfort in each other's arms. It was just like after Margaret had died and the memory of that time brought new pain with it, but still there was a tiny bastion of hope inside Alan that this wasn't the end just yet, a tiny bastion that he wouldn't let be killed before hearing it from his own son. He had to know, he needed those words, he had to…

"What's with Charlie?"

He didn't want to know, he didn't want to hear those words, he didn't want to…

"They're still in there. They didn't tell me anything. I don't know –"

The room started spinning again and Alan let himself sink onto a plastic chair half-blind. "He's alive?" This wasn't real, this wasn't his voice, this wasn't this world anymore.

"He's alive," he heard Don say, and even though he thought he could hear a 'but' coming, his relief couldn't be marred. Charlie was alive, he was still with them, and Don was fine too, and they were all together again.

Or kind of together.

When it finally hit Alan what was wearing Don down so much, that is the fact that things weren't looking as brightly as they had seemed to him in the first moment of relief, deep silence settled upon them. Alan had to swallow hard once again, and the noises around them seemed unnaturally loud to him. His own nervousness was starting to scare him.

He listened to Don's breathing, trying to distract himself from his fear, from his nervousness, and Don made it easy for him, his breathing being unnaturally loud and heavy. He didn't dare turning his head to look at him, afraid of what he might see, afraid of the emotion he might find on his eldest son's face. On the other hand, he was filled with an immense urge to finally do something, to be the strong one for once, to keep up an optimistic view on things, to be there for at least one of his sons. He just didn't know how to do that. What was there to do but wait? What was there to say but hollow reassurances?

He was filled with relief yet again when Don's voice reached his ears, even though it was hoarse and thin. "How did you even get here?"

The feeling of relief was strengthened. Talking felt good. Talking required them to direct their thoughts onto something other than the events that might crush their lives tonight. "I took a cab," he said and just went on talking, filling the air around them with words, trying to make the fear dissipate. "I was in that log cabin first. I arrived only a couple of minutes before you… well, before Colby gave us the news."

Don was silent for a minute.

"What are you even doing here?" he then asked, though it didn't really sound like a question, more like reproach.

Alan frowned. Maybe talking wasn't such a good idea after all. "There's no need to use that tone with me, young man. I just had to come. I have to be here. I don't know if you realize how hard it is for a father to just sit at home doing nothing and leaving his sons to their fate."

"So you wanted to do something?" Don asked a bit saucily, still using a tone Alan didn't like at all. "You wanted to be closer to the action?"

Alan just looked at his son earnestly, saying nothing.

For an instant, Don's mouth twitched to something that almost looked like a smile, only that it was an expression that made Alan shudder. "Well, you're gonna realize pretty soon that being closer to the action doesn't help you one bit. We're just as useless here, and we don't get any information either, at least not as long as those damn doctors keep shutting us out."

"Donnie –"

Alan was reaching for his son, but Don was avoiding his touch. He stood abruptly and started pacing up and down the hallway.

"Donnie, please, just sit down."

"And why should I do that!"

Alan flinched violently as Don's fist came into ungentle contact with the wall.

"Don…" He didn't know what else to say. Don, however, seemed to have gotten himself together again. The next time he passed that part of the wall, it was spared the blow, which was a good thing for his fist as well. The pacing, however, continued. Alan was searching for a way to make him stop doing that, but in the end couldn't find a sense in making the effort. He knew he had to use his strength sparingly, and thus, he tried his best to ignore the signs of Don stepping on the path of self-destruction and let his mind wander back to Charlie.

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The emergency room's waiting area was almost empty. Apart from them, there was only a pale-faced woman in there, a little girl in her lap, at the other end of the hallway. It was a good thing they were practically alone, good for Don. This way, he could give way to his newly awakened agitation, to try and make the thoughts go away that kept coming back to him. They had found Charlie too late, much too late, and if he didn't make it now, if he…

 _Bamm._

Again, he had passed that part of the wall, and again it had received a heavy blow with his hand. He knew that there was no sense in doing that, he knew the wall didn't feel anything, and it didn't feel anything when he hit it again and again and again, and Don didn't either. He couldn't feel anything, for all the sensations and emotions and thoughts and fears and worries were getting at him all at once, they were overwhelming him, making him numb, making him unable to actually feel a single one of those perceptions, and he was just so tired, so unbelievingly tired, while at the same time his nerves were tense to tear, making him more alert than he had been in days, making resting something that just wasn't possible although it was the one thing his body was longing for –

"Stop that, Donnie."

Don pretended not to have heard his dad. Had he heard him? He wasn't even sure anymore. It was just so much, far too much…

"Don!"

Don stood suddenly. He turned around and looked his father directly in the eye, into those old, wrinkled eyes with their gaze so full of grief that Don could hardly bear it. It was just like it had been then, when they had once already –

" _Stop that, Donnie."_

 _Defiance and anger and immense sadness kept Don from obliging. Almost as an act of deliberate provocation, he took another gulp from his bottle, not beer, but whiskey. He'd never been particularly fond of the beverage, but by the third glass, he always reached a point when he stopped noticing that._

" _Donnie!"_

 _The bottle was wrenched from his hand. It took Don a while to enable him to turn his gaze down at his now empty hands and then start looking for the whiskey thief and for the owner of the voice. His vision was slightly blurry and unsteady, and for some reason the room was spinning, but the figure in front of his eyes was so familiar that he recognized it even in his deplorable state._

" _Dad."_

 _For a moment, Don wasn't sure whether he'd actually said what he had meant to say, the short syllable was no bit clearer than the images that his bloodshot eyes were sending to his numbed brain. Gradually, however, everything seemed to be coming into focus. There were eyes… and the one thing he could see in those eyes, the one thing he recognized beyond a doubt, was sadness, a sadness that made him sad as well, almost bringing tears to his eyes._

" _Don, I'm begging you, stop doing that, please. This won't make it any better, all it's going to give you is alcohol poisoning. Is that what you want? You want me to lose you, too?"_

 _For a moment, just a tiny, trifling moment, Don was tempted to reply, "Why not, you still got Charlie." Then, however, when the words had almost assembled on his heavy tongue, he managed to hold them back. Just in time. For just in time, he'd realized that he was wrong. If he managed to drink himself to death, his father would actually be left behind alone, for Charlie was… he was…_

" _Dead," his heavy tongue completed his tired thought that his confused brain had sent to his rough throat. That was it, dead. Charlie was gone and Don could pour as much alcohol into himself as he wanted, he wouldn't be able to change that, nor to make it more bearable. Charlie was dead, irrevocably dead, it was over, everything was over…_

 _He could feel his father's wet shirt on his face_ and only then did he realize that he was crying in his father's arms.

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Alan was worried. And right now, his thoughts revolved less about his younger son and more around the question what on earth he could do for his eldest. Because for Charlie, there wasn't much more to do right now than praying. Don, however, was here, closer to him than he'd been in years, and he was letting out a cry for help that couldn't have been more obvious.

He put a hand on the back of his son's head, thinking that it had to be almost three decades since the last time that he had seen his eldest cry, apart from last fall when Charlie… But in any other situation in his life, Don had always put up a front of strength, no matter the circumstances, and in fact so convincingly that this apparent unfeelingness had filled Alan with uneasiness. Now, however, he was just as uneasy seeing that Don apparently had none of that strength left.

It had to be exhaustion. That was something time could heal. A few days of rest and Don would be back on top of his game.

But Alan didn't manage to convince himself. He knew exhaustion wasn't everything. Exhaustion alone wouldn't have made such a wreck of his son, and it wasn't hard to find the real reason for his poor state.

There had been a time in the lives of his two sons when he hadn't been sure how they felt about each other. Sure, Charlie had always been trying to establish a closer relationship with his older brother and to get his attention. However, when Don had distanced himself from them, especially from his younger brother, Charlie too had kept his distance, apparently accepting the definite separation of the two worlds they lived in. At that point, Alan and Margaret had been filled not only with fear, but also with sadness and a nagging sensation of failure. They had managed to bring two wonderful young men into this world, but they hadn't managed to raise them to siblings that loved each other or at least showed some interest in each other's lives.

And then, Margaret had died. Alan's only consolation during the time of her sickness and the ensuing time of grief had been his hope that this incredible loss would bring the remainder of the family closer together. It hadn't worked though. After a brief period of hardly noticeable closeness and an insufficient attempt of offering support to each other, they had distanced themselves from each other once again. Alan had tried to keep them all together, to mediate, to bring them into contact. He had believed to be failing, there hadn't been any significant progress.

In the end, it had been coincidence. Or fate? Alan couldn't tell, but he was relatively sure that his two sons would have two distinct answers to that question. That, however, didn't matter. Whether it had been coincidence or fate, the fact was that they had found something in common, that they had realized that they could work alongside each other. They had realized that they were a good team, and that their differences weren't as insurmountable as they had thought all that time.

And now this.

It couldn't have been more obvious how close the relationship between the two brothers had become by now, and the only two people that were still unaware of the strength of their bond seemed to be his sons themselves. There was no doubt that Charlie loved Don, and if there had still been any doubt concerning the reciprocity of that feeling, it would have vanished after Charlie's presumed death, when Don had fallen into that big, black sucking hole of grief. It seemed as though everything that had happened since that time had only strengthened their bond so that now, there wasn't anything anymore that could separate them.

Except for death.

Alan swallowed hard. He tightened his embrace, not just because his son needed it. It was true that Don was exhausted, but it was also true that more than his exhaustion, the worry about his brother was wearing him down. And it was true that time could heal things and make the exhaustion disappear – but Alan refrained from imagining what that ruthless time might do to Charlie during the next couple of hours.


	49. In between

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1

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49\. In between

"I wonder what Larry and Amita are doing right now. Megan must have informed them long ago," Alan said into the sterile silence of the hospital corridor. Truth be told though, he had no difficulty imagining what his son's two friends were currently doing: waiting. And that impatiently. True, they had to know by now that the team had found Charlie, but that wouldn't necessarily decrease their worry. And Alan knew what that was like, waiting. He too had been sitting at home during these past few days, longing to be a little closer to his sons and to get a little more information.

Now, he was closer to his sons, but he still didn't get more information. Don had been right. This wasn't much better than it had been back in Pasadena. Not much, but at least a little, for here, he could at least be there for Donnie, even though seeing his eldest son like this was filling Alan with a grief of its own.

They were still sitting on the plastic chairs in the waiting area. The woman with the child had disappeared a while ago, so they were among themselves now, no-one there to overhear their conversations, no-one there to disturb them if they decided to take a nap. Just that napping wasn't an option right now, so what remained, what they could do in order to prevent themselves from going insane, was making conversation, and that was what Alan did.

"Of course they would have liked to come as well," he continued the train of thought he'd started earlier, "but of course they can't just leave CalSci like that, and after all we didn't know if… But now I think they'll try to get here as quickly as possible. On the other hand, finals are almost there…" He chuckled softly, but it sounded very hoarse. "The real stress is probably just about to start for the two of them."

When Alan realized that he was not just uttering trifle matters, but that he was doing it in a soliloquy on top of that, he fell silent. He looked over to his eldest son worriedly, wondering if he had really recovered from that surprisingly emotional moment earlier as well as he pretended. Alan knew that Don was probably embarrassed already by his behavior, or at least he would be as soon as his mind was back to its usual working order. He was pondering on whether he should talk to him about that, but his train of thoughts was cut short, as was his breath: a doctor came towards the waiting area with purposeful strides, to the waiting area that was still empty except for them. That had to mean –

"You're here for Charles Eppes?"

Alan practically bolted from his chair and thus stood even more quickly than his far younger son. "How is he?"

The doctor first gave the two of them a serious, but otherwise non-revealing glance and grabbed a chair from the opposite wall. "Let's sit," he said and Alan had to restrain himself not to jump at the other man's throat to make the words come out of his mouth sooner. He had to be patient, though. They would soon know what was wrong with Charlie, soon…

"You're his father?" the doctor asked when they had all sat down again.

"Yes," Alan confirmed with increasing impatience, "and this is his brother. So how is he?" he repeated his question, a little more urgently than before.

"First of all: he's stable for now, although he isn't out of the woods yet. In other terms, his condition isn't life-threatening anymore, not at this point, but we can't tell for sure how it's going to change over the next couple of hours. Your son has been brought here in a malnourished, dehydrated and hypothermic state. Due to that, his immune system is quite weakened, and it's probably those factors that also contributed to the blood poisoning. Besides, his tibia is fractured. Taken by themselves, none of these symptoms is life-threatening, not in the degree Charles presents with them, but we're a bit worried about the combined effect these symptoms may have taken together. They weaken his body, so we can't tell how he's going to react to the treatment."

For a few moments, Alan couldn't find anything to say, much less Don.

"Can we see him?" Alan asked eventually, and he would have hardly recognized his voice himself.

"Only one by one and only fifteen minutes at a time. Your son still needs rest, Mr. Eppes." He gave Don's pale and haggard face a telling look. "At least one of them."

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Don had urged him to go first. There hadn't been much urging necessary though. Alan's longing to finally see his other son again as well hadn't been marred at all by the doctor's little reassuring report. He'd somehow expected the malnourishment and the dehydration and had been trying to mentally prepare for that, but the rest, the fracture in his leg and the blood poisoning, the overall prognosis… It all left Alan with an uneasy feeling and the nagging question how much the body of a single person could tolerate at once.

A bit breathless, Alan stepped into Charlie's room in the intensive care unit, the sterile costume he'd had to put on reminding him far too much of how serious this matter was, as did the machines and devices. The sight almost knocked him over. There was more machinery to be seen than Charlie, but of course, he still couldn't miss the unmoving figure in the bed.

Tears sprung to his eyes when they finally fell upon the familiar curly head, and the tears were released when his gaze fell upon the bandage on his forehead. He wiped them away impatiently, and slowly, he approached his son and let himself sink down at his bedside. There was a lump in his throat, and he almost felt relieved about the fact that Charlie was unconscious and thus didn't see him like that, fighting to keep his emotions in check.

Through the veil of tears before his eyes, Alan searched for his son's hand. He found it and stroked it gently, then pressed it hard, almost hoping the gesture would wake him up. There was no reaction though. The beeps of the machines around him came with unwavering regularity and it could even have had a soothing effect if the sound hadn't meant that Charlie's life was hanging by a thread.

He studied the pale face. There wasn't much to be seen. For one, there was that white pressure bandage, apparently covering a wound that had to be more substantial than all those smaller cuts that Alan could see. The mouth and nose, on the other hand, were covered by a rebreather mask. There was a tube going into Charlie's mouth, and shudders ran down Alan's spine when he looked down at his son lying there so helplessly, so dependent on the machinery he was attached to.

The most terrifying aspect however was Charlie's pallor. Alan couldn't tell how much the impression was distorted by the light, but the fact was that to him, Charlie's face hardly contrasted with the white cushion he was lying upon. Right now, he didn't look like his buoyant, energetic son, but more like a picture from one of Don's case files.

All of a sudden, Alan was hot. His stomach felt queasy, but now that the thought was there, he couldn't make it disappear again, the thought that Charlie didn't just look lifeless, but could also be lifeless sometime soon. He couldn't, though. Alan just didn't want to imagine a world without him. He didn't want to imagine what it would be like to have to bury his son.

A second time.

The pain inside him awakened anew, overcoming the weakened figure inside him that was still trying to get back to its old strength behind the façade of optimism and hope. Behind that façade, however, Alan was aware that he couldn't bear going through that hell of grief and sorrow a second time. Burying his child once had been hard enough the first time, and nobody had been more surprised than himself that it hadn't broken him. However, there was no doubt in his mind that this was all he could take. He couldn't go through this once again, and from what he'd seen today, he didn't think that Don could either. So try as he might, he couldn't cherish any more doubt about it: if Charlie didn't make it, their whole family would fall apart.

"Please don't die," Alan whispered, his voice choked. "Please, Charlie, please don't die."

There wasn't even the slightest change on his son's still face.

With that, the point had been reached when Alan let the tears run down his face freely. He had held them back much too long already, had forbidden himself to show what he really felt for far too long. And yet, he realized that part of what he felt was relief, because even though Charlie looked pale and exhausted and broken, he was still here, so close to him that he could touch him, they had him back. They had reason to hope that everything would turn out well now – so why did Alan feel more desperate at his son's bedside than he had felt all this time?

 _Because there's nothing I can do for him_ , the answer crossed his mind unwanted and left him with a feeling of being unable to breathe. It was true, so true and so wrong: there was nothing he could do for his son. If Charlie didn't make it on his own, he'd be forced to watch him die.

The desperation was back, mingling with the relief, and all the emotion that filled his inside made him feel nauseous. His body was screaming for a retreat, for a place where the emotions wouldn't be just as strong, but he knew he couldn't do that. Even if the unspeakable happened, if Charlie died, there was no way he could leave. He would stay with him until the end, so that Charlie wouldn't be alone when he left this world. That was all he could do for him, and that was what he would do. He wasn't going to leave him.

"Mr. Eppes, the fifteen minutes are over."

Alan turned his head, staring at the nurse, unable to do anything else.

"I'll have to ask you to leave your son alone now," she added when Alan didn't move. "He needs to rest."

Alan nodded, wiping the remnants of the tears from his face, and gave his son one last glance. He tried telling himself that this wasn't the end, that he would surely see him again, alive. Charlie would make it. Surely he would make it.

Even though Alan couldn't help him.

When he returned to the waiting area, he saw his eldest sitting there, still bent forward, still his head buried in his hands. It seemed unreal to him that he should find Don in exactly the same position as he'd left him. As though time had stood still, or as though he had just been in another world with a time of its own.

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Ian had put that appraising look back on his face. This time, however, the look wasn't meant for Don, but for his two team members, for of course Ian hadn't missed what an impression Charlie's appearance had made upon them. Granted, he too had been a bit rattled by the sight of that lifelessly sprawled figure, but at least he managed to keep his real thoughts and emotions behind a protective façade, which was something he couldn't say of the other two agents. They were pale, though not nearly as pale as Charlie had been. Their eyes too told him that they were someplace else with their minds.

"What now?" David asked when the helicopter had disappeared above their heads, and if Ian hadn't felt as badly for him as he did, he might have told him in no uncertain ways that he was a federal agent and should act like one.

Since Colby didn't answer, looking just as clueless as his partner, it was Ian to reply, "Rosenthal still has to be out there somewhere, and maybe there are others as well."

"You're saying we should keep looking for them?"

Ian shook his head. "Not now. It's getting dark. We should head back. Tomorrow though we'll have to continue the search for the rest of them."

"Maybe…" Colby started, his voice strangely hollow. He hesitated before he went on, but in the end he said, "Maybe Charlie can help us with that. Maybe he knows something about their plans, or at least how many people we're looking for."

Ian only gave them a pitiful look, gently shook his head and then called Mansfield so he would come and pick them up. However, as he turned away from his two colleagues, he realized that he too couldn't shake a small glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, Colby's proposal wouldn't be that far-fetched after all.

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Don didn't know what to do. He felt immensely unsuited for this, at the wrong place somehow. As though it'd be wrong somehow that he was sitting at his brother's hospital bed in the ICU.

He tried to figure out what he was supposed to do, what his role was in this room, his task, how he was supposed to make things better, or at least less bad. He just didn't know. Even worse, he couldn't even think about it. The questions kept whirling through his mind, but he couldn't keep his thoughts together enough to collect them, to think about the answers. If someone had asked him what he was thinking about, he couldn't have told them. What was he thinking about? Nothing. Was it possible to think of nothing? Of everything, then. Of Charlie.

His brain was so completely overwhelmed that it was utterly confusing to him. He had lost orientation, he had lost his grip on things, on what was going on here, on where his mind was at, on what was happening right now.

But wasn't it obvious what was happening?

A bit against better judgment, Don tried to analyze the situation, tried using the faculties he had been trained in for his job, to investigate and come to the bottom of this matter. In the end, it was logic, just like the things Charlie always busied himself with.

So what _was_ going on? He was sitting at the side of a bed, a bed in which Charlie was lying, unconscious and attached to tubes and machines. He was lying there and nobody could tell them for how long, or how this was going to end. Maybe he would die, maybe he wouldn't. Those were things that couldn't be predicted. Maybe Charlie would have been able to calculate the odds. Maybe he would be able to give a prognosis if… if he wasn't the one fighting for his life.

 _Is he really doing that?_ the thought crossed Don's mind. Was his little brother really fighting for his life at this moment? It certainly didn't look like it. Charlie seemed so peaceful, so _beat_ , so… defeated.

Don felt, as if it wasn't really his own body, how dry his mouth suddenly was. Maybe it was this kind of confusion that made his body resume to automatisms and thus ensured that his heart didn't stop beating at the moment the realization hit. What remained was the burning sensation in his gut that at this point, his brother didn't look like a fighter, not like someone who was fighting death, but like someone who had fought and lost, no, worse, someone who had given in. That, however, was something that he just wouldn't tolerate. Charlie couldn't just give in. He couldn't let himself be ripped away from them and just go, not without putting up a fight first. It was his damn duty to do everything in his power to remain with them.

But what if that wasn't what he wanted?

Don was so beat that he couldn't even tell whether or not the question was reasonable, but he knew, he was _certain_ , that Charlie wanted to remain with them. He knew his brother. He knew that Charlie wouldn't just abandon them if he could find another possibility. If he had the choice between the easy way and the right one, he wouldn't duck the responsibility, Don knew that.

But then why did everything point to Charlie having decided for the wrong way?

 _He can't carry on any longer,_ Don realized as he took in the sight of Charlie's haggard face. His brother was at the end of his tether. He didn't have any strength left to go on fighting. He didn't have the strength he needed to choose the right way, the way with the greater obstacles, the way that would lead him back to life.

"But you _have_ to make it," Don heard himself whisper. He only registered the words when they were spoken, but he knew they were true. Charlie just had to make it. The only question was: how?

"I'm gonna stay with you," that hoarse voice whispered again, and Don couldn't keep the moisture from bewetting his eyes. "You don't have to fight alone. I'm gonna stay with you, no matter what happens. I'm gonna help you. I won't let you down."

"Mr. Eppes, I'm sorry, but I'll have to ask you to leave now."

Don pressed Charlie's hand one last time and stood. He had no doubt that Charlie knew just as well as himself that the spatial separation didn't mean anything, that it didn't change anything about the fact that Don wouldn't leave him alone, ever. Even though he couldn't stay at his side, he would stay with him in his thoughts. Fight with him. And together, they would make it.


	50. Together

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1

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50\. Together

Alan found himself between a rock and a hard place.

In the end, his eldest had succumbed to exhaustion and was now sprawled across the chairs in the waiting area without being disturbed in the slightest by the hospital's few noises in those earliest hours of the day. Even though he occasionally uttered an unintellegible murmur, he still seemed to be sound enough asleep so that he wasn't aware of his surroundings anymore.

And that was Alan's problem. For if he'd had a choice, he would have told Don to catch up on his sleep not here, in this uncomfortable position, but some place where he would actually get some much-needed rest. For that, however, he'd have to wake Don up, thus cutting short the sleep that had finally taken a hold of him, and he didn't want to do that. Much less because he feared that he wouldn't be able to convince Don to go and get some rest anyway.

Alan sighed, feeling the tiredness descend upon him as well. He had to stay awake, though. Someone had to hold the fort.

But to do what? Nothing had changed since they had come here, not really, he was still useless, still felt out of place, so much so that he couldn't even remain seated, but had to start walking up and down the hallway. His only consolation was that his wandering, while agitated, was still much slower than his son's nervous strides few hours earlier, which at least gave the impression of him being reasonably calm about this, keeping up a façade that didn't let anyone see that his world was crumbling to pieces.

Following a sudden impulse, he'd just been meaning to leave the waiting area, getting away from this, when something held him back. He'd planned on calling someone, not sure whom, just intending to do something in order not to feel quite as useless. Now, however, he realized that he wasn't completely useless here, that he had a task here after all: waiting. Since Don was asleep, it was his duty to stay here in case a doctor came to give them some news.

Again, he sighed, letting himself sink back on the plastic chair. He was longing for his armchair, for its soft cushions and its straight back. Only an instant later, he chastised himself for thinking about something as trivial and meaningless as his armchair in a situation like this. His son was hurt, he was lying in the ICU, he might not live to see the morning light. It was possible that tomorrow, Charlie just wouldn't be there anymore. And he was thinking about his _armchair_.

Disgusted with himself, Alan shook his head. He didn't want this anymore. He hated this. He hated the situation, he hated this place, and now he even hated himself. He just wanted it to stop. This waiting was worse than anything else.

Then, however, he visualized the two possibilities how this situation could come to an end, and he didn't even have to think in order to know that Charlie's death definitely wasn't an option that would be an improvement of this situation.

As though this was about him.

Again, Alan felt disgusted with himself, and again, there was nothing he could do or think or feel to distract himself from the uneasy feeling in his guts.

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Pain was the first thing he was aware of. It was there even before the initially pleasant sensation of warmth, which, however, soon increased to a far less pleasant sensation of heat, it was there before the vague prescience of hearing noises, long before he regained a rough understanding of time and space. The pain didn't go away either. He was waiting for it, he was waiting for the release, waiting to be able to focus on something else, but the pain just remained, increasing instead of abating. The pain made him grimace, too, it made him cramp up every single muscle, thus eliciting new pain, making him forget where he was or who he was. All he wanted, all he could think about, was for it to stop.

And all of a sudden, it was all there again. He remembered. He remembered he had wished for that once already, for the pain to stop, for _everything_ to stop. He just hadn't been able to bear it anymore, had only been lying there helplessly, hoping to be delivered from the pain.

And then, it had actually happened.

He had been certain: _this is it. This is dying._ Once more, he had seen the faces of all his loved ones before his eyes. Amita, Larry, his dad. Don. Especially Don's face he remembered, it was so clear to him as though it had actually been there. There had been something else about it that had burnt it into his memory, the expression on it. The expression in his eyes, to be exact. Those eyes had shown emotions he had hardly or maybe never seen there before: fear, worry, love… And what was he supposed to think of those tears? Were they an indication of happiness or of sorrow? Of relief or of desperation? He didn't know, but he knew he had seen those tears in his mind, he remembered seeing them distinctly even though he had no idea where his subconscious might have taken those images from to show him in his last moments.

This mystery, however, was only one of two that were occupying his mind beside the pain. And the second mystery was even worse, it made him doubt his ability to think rationally. For the release _had_ come, hadn't it? The pain _had_ stopped existing, _he_ had stopped existing – so why was he still experiencing the pain? It just didn't make sense, nothing here was making sense…

Charlie forced himself to open his eyes. It didn't work. He tried again, he had to figure out what was going on, where the mistake was, why the pain still hadn't gone away.

His eyes opened only to slits, but even that was too much. The flashy light made the nerves in his brain explode and threw him back into a much more agreeable place, into the deep, dark sea of unconsciousness.

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It was as though he had a sixth sense. He couldn't tell what had woken him, whether it had been a dream or a noise from outside or just the sense of duty that he had to take up his watch over his brother again. At any rate he awoke only minutes before an elderly doctor entered the waiting area that was now flooded by the first light of the morning.

"For Charles Eppes?"

Both he and his dad jumped and stood. They had to be looking pretty weary, for the doctor was giving them an encouraging smile. "Things are looking good," she said, and the weight being lifted from their minds almost made them dizzy. "Mr. Eppes is responding well to the treatment. He's still rather weak, but he should be able to get back to his old strength in a matter of days if he allows himself the necessary rest. We don't expect any further complications at this point, even though I should tell you that it's never possible to make a prognosis with a hundred per cent certainty."

Alan hardly dared opening his mouth. "You're saying… you're saying he'll be okay?" He wasn't sure if he understood. Much less could he believe it.

The doctor nodded. "It looks like it. We'll be transferring him to a regular room tomorrow."

"But he's going to stay in the ICU today?" Don asked and his voice still sounded a little hollow. He didn't manage to feel relief yet, for as long as Charlie stayed in the ICU, they would probably still have to adhere to all the regulations that ensured his health, which would mean that he was still at risk and –

The doctor apparently read his thoughts. "Yes, he's going to stay there for the remainder of the day, but there won't be any restrictions concerning visiting hours. You may visit him there as if he were in a regular room."

Don was still nodding slightly when the doctor had already left them again. He still couldn't quite believe it. This nightmare was actually over now? Charlie was really going to make it? Without a doubt? He was really going to be okay?

Don had to sit down, he was dizzy. The feeling of weakness remained until he felt his father's hand on his forearm. He looked up – directly into a pair of old, tired eyes. Eyes which were brimming with tears of joy.

Don swallowed hard and tried to get a hold of himself. He finally had to get rid of this damn weakness now. It was over. Charlie would live. There was no reason for Don to further dwell on gloomy thoughts. Charlie was going to be okay, that was all that mattered. It was irrelevant how much guilt he'd burdened himself with. It was senseless now thinking about what might have happened, thinking that if it hadn't been for Don, Charlie would have never been in that kind of –

Don called a halt before it was too late. He knew he couldn't let himself be dragged back down into the abyss of his guilty conscience. He knew he couldn't allow himself to show weakness again, not now that Charlie had entered the arduous path of convalescence.

His brother needed him.

For a moment, it felt as though the burden of his task would weigh Don down and weaken him even further, but then it seemed to him as though it was a hurdle, a bar at which he'd be able to pull himself upright again. He wouldn't let Charlie down now, nor his dad. He would pull himself together and be strong for his family. He'd be their rock, one on which they could rely.

He sat himself a bit more upright, straightening his upper body, getting his posture back. "You wanna go see him first?" he asked his father.

Alan frowned. There was still insecurity in his eyes, a fear that he might have misunderstood the doctor's words after all. "Why? We can go see him together."

Don nodded slowly. So alright, maybe it'd take him a while to get back on his feet, to get back to his old self. To being the rock. Until then, all that he could do and what he would do was his best performance of the rock. He just had to pretend that everything was alright with him and the world so that they could lean on him and feel strengthened by his support, whether or not it was standing on steady ground yet.

"Sure," he said. "Let's go together."

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"The murder of Anna Silversteen has to be connected to this whole mess somehow as well," David said during their first briefing in the morning. They – that is Don's team, albeit without its boss, Blake's team and Ian – had agreed on discontinuing the spatially circumscribed manhunt for Rosenthal within the park. They hadn't found him when they'd been looking for Charlie and had even less to go on in his case. Instead, they'd decided to just wait and see if something would turn up from the APB they'd put out on him. Or maybe Charlie would be able to give them some information.

"Connected how?" Colby asked. "Or rather, how do you plan on figuring that out? We don't know anything about her case."

"I read the file," Megan interceded. "Looks like the work of professionals. And we have reason to believe that Anna has been watching Charlie and received money for her trouble. If we could figure out where the money came from, we'd have a promising lead."

"So how should we proceed?" David asked, looking around him.

"What about Eppes's brother?" came the question from Karen Teeger, from Blake's team.

"I called the hospital before we started the briefing," Megan now informed the other team as well. "He's out of the woods as it seems, but they couldn't tell me when we should be able to question him. Oh, and just for your information, we got someone from the local police department being assigned for his security, just to be sure."

Karen Teeger pursed her lips. "We should really try to get his statement as soon as possible. Maybe he knows something about Rosenthal's whereabouts or his plans. At the very least he should be able to tell us whether there are further members we should be on the lookout for."

"Well, all I can tell you is that he's in no state to be questioned right now," Megan replied, having a hard time to keep her tone neutral. She managed, though, and she did so by reminding herself again and again that everything would come out all right now. Her night had been a restless one, filled with nagging questions and worry about the Eppes family, and yet she couldn't keep herself from feeling a twinge of irritation when she thought about Don and the fact that he hadn't told them about the good news right away, no matter the early hour. Then again, she knew she should be glad that she'd been able to gather that information at all, even though she'd had to take advantage of her status as a federal agent to do that. Now, however, she'd learned what she'd wanted to hear, and the tension had finally receded. Charlie was going to live, so everything else would surely fall back into place, and maybe then, they would finally be able to leave this emotional roller coaster that had started over six months ago.

"So we'll have to stick to the resources we've been using so far in order to find Rosenthal," Blake summarized.

"And who exactly is 'we'?" Colby asked, thereby earning himself a frowning look from Megan. "I mean, you guys already found your guy Wellman. The case is closed for you, isn't it?"

Blake shook his head. "We're just as much interested in solving the _entire_ case as you are, Granger. It's obvious that Wellman is just a member of a larger network, one that with all probability isn't just responsible for the abduction of your friend, but also for Anna Silversteen's murder. And who knows how many more crimes we may be looking at."

"Still, it should be enough for one team to investigate this matter," Colby insisted.

"Sure," Blake rebuffed him. "I don't mind at all if you go back to your sunny California."

Megan thought it was high time to calm down their tempers. She knew that after the stress and the lack of sleep during the past few days, they were all a little irritable, but that was no reason to start venting their anger on each other. "Come on, guys, let's not do this. In the end, it's not even our call to decide who's working the case, and until they make a decision, we should be able to continue working on it together, don't we?"

Colby just shrugged, still slightly miffed. Yet he knew that his anger was directed more at himself than at Blake or his team. Megan was right, they could work together well, because they got along together well, but the problem was that Colby didn't really get along with himself these days. He wasn't even sure what was making him so belligerent, but he had a suspicion that his behavior might at least partially stem from a feeling of obligation towards Don to represent his interests in his absence. For Colby was sure that his friend and boss would never let another team just take over this case, so it seemed reasonable to show them what they'd be up against if they tried to claim jurisdiction. He wouldn't let that happen, and he realized that it wasn't just for Don. He knew that they had to solve this case, that they couldn't just lean back and watch, not with this one. This was about Charlie, his brother's boss and Colby's friend, and Colby wasn't used to letting his friends down.

And yet he probably had.

He clenched his teeth when it occurred to him once again that they might have made a mistake last fall. They might have overlooked something, even if it might have been just a small detail that would have told them where to find Charlie, that would have enabled them to figure out what was wrong and to nip this whole thing in the bud. They might have been able to clear up this whole matter last fall, all the pain and the grief caused by Charlie's alleged death might not have been necessary, and maybe the new pain caused by this second abduction might also have been avoided. So yeah, Colby couldn't shake the feeling that he'd let his friend down, that to a certain degree, he was to blame for everything that had happened since last fall, and that entailed Charlie's critical condition at this point. If they had solved this case last fall, none of this could have happened.

One thing was sure, though: he wouldn't let Charlie down a second time.


	51. Guilt

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1. There's also a reference to 1-10 Dirty Bomb.

* * *

51\. Guilt

"I'll leave the two of you alone then," Alan said to Don in a low voice. Despite the insecurity on both their sides, the joint visit had been a little easier on Alan than his first visit in Charlie's machine-filled room in the ICU.

Even now, his chest was still trembling with suppressed feelings, but at least he'd managed to convince himself by now that Charlie was better than he had been at his latest visit. True, he still wasn't responsive, at least not until Alan felt he had to leave, but he also knew he couldn't wait until he was, not if he wanted to maintain control over himself. Besides, he knew he should update Amita, Larry and the others on Charlie's condition.

He left the hospital building and turned his cell back on. For a moment, he savored the fresh air, which after the stuffy and sterile hospital seemed to him like a new-found freedom, and then turned his attention to his cell phone.

His head jerked back, startled, when his eyes fell upon the display: five missed calls. He took a closer look upon the matter and realized that all the calls came from Amita, all during the past night.

Alan sighed. It seemed as though it was going to take him a while to convince Amita that everything would actually come out all right again.

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After his father had left them alone, Don sank back into the somber depths of his mind. He was still having a hard time pretending that everything was alright again, because he knew that it wasn't.

This whole time, Don had been longing to find his brother. Eventually, they had found him, and Don had been wishing that Charlie would make it. Now Charlie had made it, but still… somehow it hadn't given Don the release, the relief he'd been hoping for so much. The reason for that was so simple that Don wondered how he'd ever been able to think that finding Charlie would solve all his problems, for finding him couldn't change the fact that he was the one that had let everything happen that had led to this precarious situation.

A soft sound made him jump. It had been hardly audible, but Don's oversensitive senses had enabled him to distinguish it from the monotonous background noises.

Tense and filled with an inexplicable nervousness, Don regarded his brother with heightened watchfulness, and now, it wasn't hard to detect the source of that sound: Charlie's hand. It jerked, slightly, again, causing a slight rustle on the white sheet that most others would never have noticed. There wasn't much movement, and it was more of a reflex really, but still it fascinated Don so much that he feverishly let his eyes fly across the rest of his brother's body, eager to see more activity.

His attempt was successful. For a moment, he wasn't sure, but when he continued looking into his brother's face, there could be no doubt left: Charlie's eyelids were twitching, too.

All of a sudden, Don's mouth was dry, even more so than it already had been, and as though that wasn't enough, now his throat started constricting as well. Signs of panic. He didn't know what to do. Where was his dad? What was he supposed to do if Charlie actually woke up now? Maybe he'd be in pain? What was Don supposed to do then? Or maybe Charlie would be confused or scared and wouldn't know where he was and –

He closed his eyes, concentrating on his breathing, trying to calm himself down. He reminded himself of the oath he'd sworn: he'd be strong now. He had sworn himself to be there for his family now, to find back to his old self. He wouldn't let them down now.

He still wasn't completely sure whether he was doing the right thing, but at least he was doing _something_ now: he laid his hand on Charlie's twitching one. As soon as the twitching stopped, the slight movement becoming smoother, calming down, Don knew that he was doing the right thing, and he tightened his grip.

For a few anxious moments, he stared at Charlie's eyelids, praying that they might open and at the same time that they might remain closed. At last, they opened.

The slit wasn't wide and thus, it took a few seconds for Don to realize that Charlie's pupils were flying across the room, searching.

"Hey, buddy," he whispered, and this way, both of them could ignore the fact of how broken his voice sounded. The tears, however, couldn't be disguised, nor blinked away, and thus it took Don a while before he could go on talking. "Finally decided to wake up, did you?"

The moment the words left his mouth, he felt utterly stupid. It was the first thing that had come to mind though, the only thing to be exact, and after all, he wasn't even sure whether Charlie had heard him. On the other hand, he was now looking at him directly.

For a while, they just stared into each other's eyes, just relishing a sight they had both thought they might never see again. However, Don could see that there wasn't just relief in Charlie's eyes, there was more to be found in that expression. Pain. Confusion. Insecurity. And something else…

When he thought he could see that Charlie was just about to express his confusion with words, he pressed his hand a little harder. It had been days since Charlie's throat had been in contact with fluids, so it didn't really seem advisable for him to speak now. Besides, Don could certainly do without seeing the pain on Charlie's face increase even further.

"Hey," he said, trying to cut off any attempt of speech his brother might make. To do that, however, he somehow had to guess what he wanted to say. "Are you in pain? Should I call one of the nurses?"

Charlie slowly shook his head, and even though the movement was incredibly small, his face became contorted with pain.

"Alright, Charlie, don't move, okay? I get it, just don't move. We can figure this out some other way." He paused, frantically searching his mind for another way to communicate until he found the answer that was standing there flashing brightly as if to ridicule him that he'd taken so long to come up with the idea. "Just blink once for 'yes' and twice for 'no', alright?"

One blink. Charlie had understood.

Okay, this seemed to be working. Now he just needed to figure out what it was that Charlie needed. "So… you're probably wondering where you are," Don guessed. He noticed the corners of Charlie's mouth twitch slightly upwards, the ghost of a smile. Still, it managed to calm Don down a little. "Or maybe you don't," he corrected himself. "Looks quite a lot like a hospital, I guess."

The ghost of a smile was still there when Charlie blinked again, once. The smile, however, quickly vanished when Charlie apparently was overwhelmed by a new wave of pain.

Don felt the sensation of helplessness steadily increase, unlimited. "Listen, buddy, Dad should be back in a moment, he just wanted to make some phone calls. We're in Montana, you know, and Amita and Larry will be dying to get some news." He hesitated. "Look, I don't know whether you remember how you got here or what happened." He tried to read from the expression on Charlie's face whether remembered, but all he could see in Charlie's eyes through the slits was pain and sadness and suddenly, he was scared beyond measure. What if Charlie didn't remember? What if he'd suffered a relapse? Maybe he didn't even remember him?

Don pressed his brother's hand harder and went on talking before Charlie could react to his last words, unwilling to think about those questions now. Charlie was back, he was alive, that was all that mattered now. They'd see about the rest later, step by step. "Anyway, you were abducted, from CalSci. Apparently they claimed they were arresting you, but that was obviously a lie. From what we know, we think that they took you to the Yellowstone Park and that at some point, you got free in one way or another, maybe they released you. In any case you left us clues where to find you, the pis, remember? We've been in the area for some time, but even with the pis it took us a while to find you, and when we did… Well, you were in a pretty bad shape. You must have been lying there for quite some time with your leg broken…" The image of his brother lying there among the rocks helplessly, lifelessly, came back with all the emotion attached to it, and he had to clear his throat before he could go on. "Anyway, the doctors said that you're out of the woods now. I guess you'll have to stay here for another couple of days, but things will get better now."

He knew he was starting to utter nullities, so he stopped, unsure how long he would have been able to go on anyway. All the time he hadn't been able to help himself from looking for some form of indication that the story he'd been telling wasn't new to Charlie, that he remembered what had happened. However, he still couldn't see beyond the pain.

"You remember?" he asked eventually, half against better judgment.

Instead of blinking, whether once or twice, Charlie closed his eyes. Don waited for him to open them again, to give an answer and end the tension, but they remained closed. For a moment, Don wondered whether his brother had fallen asleep again, but then they opened again, confronting Don with an amount of sadness that almost made him tumble over backwards.

He had to swallow hard. He just didn't know what was wrong, all he knew was that he couldn't stand seeing his little brother like this. "Hey… It's gonna be okay, I promise." He couldn't promise that, and he knew that, and what was worse, Charlie probably knew it as well. He was uttering nullities and nothing he was saying was helpful. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

The sadness remained, the look in Charlie's eyes interrupted only by the blinking. Twice.

With that, Don had reached the end of his tether. He just couldn't do it anymore. He couldn't go on seeing Charlie like this, not being able to do anything for him, at the same time knowing that all this could have been prevented.

"Listen, buddy," he whispered, his voice getting more broken again, and he bent down close to his brother, their noses almost touching. "I'm sorry. You hear me?" God, he couldn't do this, his brother was lying here, and all he'd done… "I'm so sorry. I know we should have found you sooner, I shouldn't have given them the opportunity to take you with them in the first place, but I just didn't… I'm so sorry, buddy."

He felt the burning moisture in his own eyes as he watched his brother's eyes close again.

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"Alright, so the way I see it, we've got three suspects that don't talk, a witness that can't talk yet, a dead woman that won't talk anymore and at least one more perp out there who can get further away with each further minute we waste," Blake summarized. "Any ideas what to do about that?"

"Make the three perps that we got talk," Ian said.

"And how do you plan to do that?" Colby wanted to know. "We already tried everything, every interrogation technique taught by Quantico. It's no use. They know the handbook inside out, if they decide that not talking is their best strategy, which they obviously have, there's nothing we can do to throw them. It's useless, there's just no getting to them." He shook his head slowly, resignation showing on his face. "I've never seen something like this, not even in Afghanistan."

"But I have," David suddenly said. The others were looking at him a bit strangely, but he didn't even notice that, he was completely taken in by his sudden inspiration. "I _have_ seen something like this before, and we _did_ manage to make them talk!" He turned to Megan and Colby. "You weren't on the team then, it was about a dirty bomb and the suspects weren't talking and then Charlie just pulled out some mathematical bauble out of his hat and all of a sudden, they decided to talk!"

"You're kidding, right?" Blake said, skepticism clearly showing on his face. He must have noticed the hopeful looks on Colby's and Megan's faces, for he continued talking, explaining his view on things almost as if he were talking to a child. "Look, I get it that your math geeks may be invaluable when it comes to figuring out how to find a mathematician leaving behind clues, but I haven't seen a suspect yet who decides to talk with the help of just some numbers. Except maybe for the number telling him the years of prison he'll get if he doesn't cooperate."

"It worked," David insisted. He was frowning, concentrating hard. "It was something about risks and… I don't really recall the details. But it worked, and we do have the experts on hand that know _how_ it should work, so why don't we just try it out? At this point, we don't really have that many options anyway."

Blake's team still seemed everything but convinced, but there wasn't much they could counter other than their doubts. "And what do we do if that too doesn't work?" O'Hara asked.

"That's something _you_ can wrack your brains about if you feel the need to do that," said Colby, one of the doubters who had learned their faith in mathematics by now. "For I can guarantee you, it _is_ going to work."

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The phone call with Amita had been less complicated than Alan had feared when he'd noticed the five missed phone calls. She did assail him with questions, albeit not with every imaginable variation of, 'How is he?', and instead choosing them from the type, 'Is it really true?'. It was only in the course of their conversation that Alan put the pieces together and figured out that Amita had already gathered the information from Megan. It seemed as though women were actually undefeated concerning the velocity of passing information. Accordingly, all that had been left for Alan to do had been to confirm the news, to give Charlie Amita's and Larry's best regards, to calm Amita down and to tell her that they would soon return home – even though Alan had no idea how soon that 'soon' would actually be.

Filled with a kind of anxiety that he was pretty sure would stay his companion for another couple of days, he returned to Charlie's room. In the meanwhile, the ICU had lost a lot of its terrors, and Alan was almost inclined to pretend it was just another patient's room. His relatively calm state, however, was soon lost when he turned around the corner and was almost run over by a man exiting Charlie's room.

"Donnie, what's wrong?" he asked surprised – no, alarmed – when he realized that the upset man was none other than his eldest son.

"I'm going out for a moment," was the evading reply, and when Alan gave him another look, he noticed that even the look in Don's eyes had become evasive.

He watched him leave, wondering what he should think about this. He knew that Don was fighting demons of his own, it had become obvious during the past night, but still his behavior could also mean that something had changed, that Charlie –

With a queasy feeling in his guts, Alan quickened his steps until he finally stood in Charlie's room again. After a second or two, he dared to breathe a sigh of relief: it seemed as though nothing had changed, Charlie was still there, still alive and still getting better. Maybe Don had just needed to get some fresh air, maybe it was that simple.

Since it was accompanied by his memory of his eldest crying softly in his arms just a few hours earlier, the thought brought a wry smile on Alan's lips. There was no denying it: his optimism was back. Even when he could see clearly that everything was far from fine or normal, his mind kept telling him that everything wasn't as bad as it seemed. It was _going to be_ fine, soon – why should he doubt that? If the past was any indicator, he was right, things weren't as gloomy as they seemed at first, and if he just had a little patience, time would soon make everything alright again. Time could indeed heal wounds, and now that it had become apparent that time was their ally and not their enemy, Alan allowed himself to hope again. Everything was going to be fine. Charlie was going to wake up soon, he'd get better, they would go home and this would finally be over, Alan was sure of that.

He regarded his son, the calm, motionless face that now didn't seem quite as ghostlike to him as only few hours earlier, and sat down at his bedside. And waited.

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When Charlie woke up again, he didn't see Don sitting at his bedside, but his dad. In his eyes, too, he could see tears brimming, but somehow, they didn't have quite the devastating effect that the moisture in Don's eyes had had on him.

He felt a little more rested than the last time. At any rate, his exhaustion seemed to be almost entirely physical, for he felt remarkably fit mentally, he was only taking a little longer than usual to get his bearings. However, he had definitely no difficulty recognizing the worry that had kept his family in suspense and that was apparently still occupying their minds. The worry _he_ had caused.

"Hey, little one. How are you feeling?"

Charlie lightly turned his head to his side, following the softly spoken words and trying to get a better view of his father. He looked old. Tired.

"Okay," he wanted to say, but instead, a hardly definable sound was emitted from his throat, which suddenly seemed to be blazing fiercely. At least that made the other painful sensations retreat out of the focus of his attention. What a consolation.

"You need something to drink?" his father asked and at the same time reached for something near the head of Charlie's bed. He couldn't follow the hand with his eyes, but when it came back, it was holding a cup that held, as he soon found out, not just a spoon, but also an uncountable number of ice chips.

Without really being able to prevent him from doing that, Charlie let his dad put one of those ice chips in his mouth. When it began melting on his tongue, he realized how dried out his body apparently was, it seemed like a porous sponge that first had to be moistened very carefully so that it could even begin to absorb fluids again. But that was okay, he was in good hands. Everything was going to be okay now.

However, when enough of the ice had melted to make his swallowing reflex kick in, his conviction was seriously challenged. He thought he was going to die, his throat was burning up more than ever and the pain made tears come to his eyes. The irony that he might lose more fluids by this method than gain them wasn't lost on Charlie, but he couldn't quite appreciate it either. This simply wasn't working, and since he was pretty sure he couldn't trust his voice right now, he tried making that clear to his dad by turning his head away from the hand and the ice chips.

In vain, of course. "You need to drink, Charlie," he heard his dad say in that tone that had managed to make him do almost everything he was asked since he was little. Still, he would have put up a fight if he could have, but since it seemed as though the only movement he was capable of was turning his head, his father had an easy victory.

While another ice chip was melting on his tongue, Charlie struggling hard not to lose the fight against the tears, he wondered what he'd done to his father to deserve this form of torture. Then, however, when the third ice chip had melted, it started getting a little better. It still hurt, but rather as though he just had a sore throat and not as though he had just swallowed a working Bunsen burner.

"Larry and Amita asked me to say hi for them," his dad now said. It didn't slip Charlie's attention that his voice still sounded a little trembling, even though it didn't seem even half as bad as Don's.

Charlie, still not trusting his voice and frankly a little afraid of how much talking might hurt, gave him a small smile, hoping his dad might understand it as a 'thanks'.

"Of course they'd like to be here now, too, but apparently they could only get a flight for the day after tomorrow, You know, they can't just leave CalSci now, especially with preparing and writing finals." He attempted a small smile as well. "I wonder if they got anything done for that those past few days, but I don't think that's very likely."

Charlie tried to keep the smile on his face, but his father's last words were making this endeavor that much harder. True, he had been hoping that Don would ask Amita and Larry for their help – but he hadn't spent even a second on thinking about their other commitments. He knew he'd been asking a lot from them and while he was quite aware that they cared about him enough to privilege him over finals, he still couldn't help but feel guilty. They had _all_ done a lot for him, his Dad and Don had even come to the Yellowstone Park, and if Charlie had understood Don right, so had his team. They had all lowered their sights in order to save him, and he had failed to keep his side of the bargain.

This time, it wasn't the pain that brought the moisture back to his eyes, but his guilty conscience. He closed them, unwilling, no, _unable_ to look his father in the eye. He knew his father was still looking upon him with the look of a father, a look full of love and understanding, a look free from reproaches – and Charlie couldn't bear thinking about how that look might change if his father knew what had happened. Right now, he was blissfully unaware of what Charlie had done to all of them, he didn't know that Charlie had chosen to give up. He didn't know that Charlie had chosen quiet and darkness instead of the pain that a continued fight would have brought with it while everyone else was going out of their way to save him. No, his father had no idea that Charlie had given preference to something else over life with them, over life with his loved ones, over life with the people who'd been trying to rescue him. He had no idea that Charlie had chosen death instead.

It wasn't fair, really. He'd been fighting for so long, had been unwavering in his resolve to go on fighting, to go on living for such a long time, but had given up just when rescue had finally arrived. For by now, he was relatively clear about the timeline, and he was almost certain now that the image of Don he had seen had been real. It hadn't been some gift from his subconscious, Don had really been there. He had been the rescue that Charlie had only seen as a release, so that the point when rescue had come had been the point when Charlie had given up. He'd surrendered to death, he'd acknowledged defeat, he'd been fine with dying, and he could consider himself lucky that he was still alive despite that choice.

On the other hand, he thought bitterly, he wouldn't have to bear this agony now if he had actually died back then. He wouldn't have to bear the physical pain nor the guilt that was threatening to slowly gnaw off his entire soul. If he had died at that point, he wouldn't have to live with the knowledge that he had given himself up despite all their sacrifices, he wouldn't have to bear looking them in the eye while bearing that knowledge, he wouldn't have to keep it a secret from them that he had been okay with cutting his life's path short by surrendering to death, he wouldn't –

And he was doing it again. He was thinking only of himself, he didn't stop to think about all the others, about their feelings, about the sacrifices they'd made to try and save him. About the grief his death would cause them. About the love that connected them. He knew he should have realized by now how much pain he would cause by that. After all, he still remembered the eulogies that Don had shown him after his return from the clinic.

He also knew he couldn't ignore their love, nor their pain, not again. He couldn't betray their love again, he couldn't surrender again. He'd have to be strong now and bear everything he'd have to bear. He couldn't let them down, not again.


	52. With a Little Help from My Friends

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1

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52\. With a Little Help from My Friends

Even with the couple of hundreds of miles that lay between them, Amita seemed a little distracted and more than a little stressed. "What exactly is it you need?"

"We have suspects that won't talk," Colby explained as he watched her over the webcam trying to get some order on her desk (which had some striking similarities with the chaos that could usually be found on Charlie's desk), apparently without success. He chose not to comment on how stressed she seemed, primarily because he was worried that any wrong word at this point might make her burst into tears. "David said you had such a case two years ago or so and that you somehow managed to resolve that by… I don't know, some math thing."

Amita stopped her search and looked up at him, her gaze both confused and a little desperate. "Could you be a little more precise?"

"It was something with advantages and disadvantages and information and some sort of dilemma," David chimed in, still trying to bring some order to his memory.

That, however, proved to be unnecessary. "The prisoner's dilemma," Amita said as though it had apparently dawned on her and as though that one word made everything clear.

"Could you explain to us how that works?" Colby said when she made no move to go on.

Instead of doing that, she turned away from the webcam, apparently towards the door, and said to someone they couldn't see, "Could you explain the prisoner's dilemma to them? I can't seem to find my notes."

A second later, Larry appeared in front of the screen. In contrast to Amita, he looked more or less like he always did, but that was probably just because they were used to a certain degree of distraction in his case.

"What's your interest in that dilemma?" he asked, and David and Colby explained the situation once again.

Larry's expression became thoughtful. "So during the interrogation, you'd like to apply the prisoner's dilemma, I see. Quite an interesting idea, I must say, although in your model, it would be advantageous if one of the persons involved has more to lose than his companions."

"Could you maybe explain to us first how exactly this dilemma works?" David asked. He was feeling lost already.

"Oh! Of course. Let's see… Imagine you have two suspects, both of which are unwilling to cooperate with you."

"Why 'imagine'," Colby muttered, but Larry apparently hadn't heard him.

He went on, "The prisoner's dilemma describes a situation in which it would be advantageous for each of the suspects if they betrayed their partner, at least if we assume that they can't coordinate their strategy, for in that case, everything gets a little more complicated. So let's assume a game with incomplete information. The dilemma presents itself by you offering both parties a deal, separately: if they both cooperate with you, thus betraying their partner, they'll both get a four year sentence. If, on the other hand, only one of them betrays his partner while the other one keeps his ill-founded loyalty and silence, the loyal one will get a higher sentence of let's say five years, while the betrayer goes free thanks to the principal witness regulation. If however both suspects decide to stay silent, the evidence you have is only sufficient to give them a two year sentence each. Even though that last case would be the optimal solution for the pair, human nature is competitive enough so that most people would choose to betray their partner."

"But we already tried that," David said when he thought he'd understood everything. "We already offered them deals, but they are a sworn community, maybe they actually swore an oath, I don't know. But we do know that they both don't talk, deal or no deal."

"This is where you'll need to make the game one of complete information, and the best way to do that is providing them each with a risk assessment. However, that plan requires one of your suspects taking a higher risk by not cooperating with you than his co-suspects, based on a different situation regarding his family or his job. I deeply hope this is the case here?"

"I'm not sure," Colby said slowly. "You mean someone who would lose more than the others by going to prison? I mean, in contrast to the other two, Wellman doesn't have to lose a whole lot, but that doesn't seem –"

"That's perfect," Larry interrupted him. "It should work just as well if we reverse the situation. Now all you'll have to do is show Wellman his payoff matrix and make it clear to him that his co-suspects would lose much more than him if they kept their silence, so that it's quite likely that they'll cooperate with you eventually."

"That's 'all' we have to do, huh?" Colby muttered while his mind was already working at how they could make that clear to Wellman without him suspecting some sort of trick. On the other hand, if they told him that this was his last chance before they would show that matrix to his accomplices… maybe this plan would have a chance to work after all. In the end, Wellman had been imprisoned for a couple of days already, it shouldn't be too hard anymore to demoralize him.

"Alright, Larry," David said, interrupting his train of thoughts. "Thanks, I think that's gonna help us a lot."

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The first thing that Don did when he stepped outside the hospital building was taking in a deep breath. And out. Yes, he'd really needed that. He hadn't been able to bear the restricting feeling of the hospital. which was amplifying the restricting feeling in his chest, threatening to suffocate him. The fact that Charlie hadn't really reacted to his apology did nothing to make him feel better.

 _What did you expect?_ Don asked himself morosely. _He almost died because of you. You let him down, big time. How could you expect him to forgive you?_

A sick feeling started to spread in his stomach as he realized that there might be something broken between him and his brother, something that couldn't be fixed. Maybe, if they'd been closer before this whole thing had started last fall, they could have made it, but now it seemed as though he was paying the price for keeping his little genius brother at an arm's length. He shook his head, wondering how he could have ever let things come so far. First he'd deliberately distanced himself from Charlie and then he'd let him down when he would have needed him most. He'd messed up every possibility where he could have gone wrong, and now it very much seemed like there was no going back.

 _Stop it_ , he told himself, a desperate attempt to keep himself from stepping further down into the sucking hole of dark melancholy. He knew that there was no use in dwelling on things that couldn't be changed, he knew that, so why did he always have to dwell on them anyway?

 _Get a grip on yourself_ , he told himself, and his anger gave him back something of his old vigor. What was done was done, he couldn't change that, but he could at least avoid making any more life-altering mistakes now. Charlie still had to get back on his feet, and in the meanwhile, there were still some of the people out there who'd done this to him.

As soon as he was relatively sure that his voice wouldn't be trembling anymore, he pulled out his cell from his pocket and called Megan.

"Don! How are you? How's Charlie?"

He wouldn't have considered it possible, but her words actually made him smile. "Better. And a good morning to you, too."

Megan passed over the remark with a smile of her own that he could hear in her next words. "We were wondering when you would finally call. So it is true that he's out of the woods?"

The smile, while still muted, was still there. He should have known that his team would make their own inquiries in this matter. "Yeah, it's true," he confirmed. "He even woke up earlier." He had to be careful, his voice was prone to break again.

"So how is he?"

He swallowed, trying to keep the vivid memory of his earlier visit at an arm's length and the emotion out of his voice. "He's alert enough, though he couldn't talk yet. But the doctors said he should be getting better quickly now."

Megan answered with a relieved sigh. "Finally some good news."

Don, on his end of the line, nodded, telling himself that she was right, that the doctors were right, that things were going to get better now.

He cleared his throat, desperate to change the subject. "So how are things at your end? Any progress on finding Rosenthal? Or on making our suspects talk?"

Megan made a pause that told Don that he might not like what she had to say to him. "We're doing what we can. Amita and Larry are just trying to explain David and Colby via webcam something about a prisoner's dilemma and Blake is trying to make the CIA a little more cooperative. We still don't know where Rosenthal might be though, so it would be good if you could talk to Charlie about that as soon as possible. Maybe he knows something about their plans."

Don was silent for a second. He'd been right, he didn't like that. "There was nothing on the APB?" He just had to make sure.

"Nothing. Well, there have been two more tips since yesterday, but it turned out that the eye-witnesses were mistaken."

This time, Don was silent for a little longer. All this was far from optimal. Rosenthal wasn't stupid. If he was speculating that his accomplices would keep their silence, and their group's structure seemed to be based on such taciturnity, all he had to fear was Charlie's testimony. Anna Silversteen's fate had shown them what this organization did to people who knew too much. True, it was possible that Rosenthal didn't consider Charlie a threat right now, that he didn't assume he was back with them, but even if he thought that, he could be disabused any moment. As bad as he felt about this, he knew that he couldn't really afford to lose much time.

"Alright, I'm gonna talk to him. He's still pretty weak, though, so I don't know when I'll be able to get something useful from him. I'll tell you as soon as I do."

"Okay. And tell him to get well soon, from all of us."

"I'll do that. And… Megan?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you guys. For everything."

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It seemed as though he was a little better every time he woke up. It also seemed as though the person sitting at his bedside changed every time, for this time, there was Don sitting in that spot next to – wait a second! No, it wasn't the usual spot he sat in, this was different…

He frowned, and as his mind slowly adjusted to the situation, he realized that he was lying in a different room now. It hadn't been a dream then. He could still remember blurry images of corridor walls and doors passing his line of sight, but until now, he hadn't realized that his mind had actually seen those images in reality while he'd been still half asleep.

So he seemed to be in a regular patient's room now. That was good. It didn't just mean that the constant beeping of the monitors was gone, but it was probably a little more comfortable for his visitors as well.

He took a closer look at his brother. Don was sitting on the chair to his left, absorbed in a file. He looked tired and exhausted, but at least those unsettling tears in his eyes were gone now.

When Charlie tried to read the letters and numbers on the folder, Don looked up at him. He smiled a little, but Charlie could see that his smile wasn't a hundred per cent genuine. Perhaps though that was just because of the lines of exhaustion on his face.

"Hey," Don said, putting the folder away and leaning forward, "how are you feeling?"

"Okay," Charlie said, or tried to say, but his throat was still refusing to work and demanding more fluids.

"You need something?" Don immediately asked. "Something to drink?"

Charlie nodded carefully, wondering if his head had been hurting like this the whole time, and gratefully accepted the ice chips that Don put in his mouth, trying to ignore the fact that his big brother was feeding him like a child. He was too much occupied with keeping himself from wincing with pain anyway, but he also noticed that his throat wasn't as sore as it had been earlier, and that it got better with each ice chip that melted there.

"How…" he started, but his voice was gone. Before he tried for a second time, he thought that maybe, the unintended interruption was a blessing, for he'd meant to ask Don how he was, still unable to get the image of his teary eyes out of his head. Now, however, he didn't think he could ask him that, so he quickly changed his question. "How's Dad?" His voice was still as hoarse as he'd never heard it before, but at least it was working again. He could communicate again, he was re-entering society.

"Dad's fine," Don said, taking up the file again. He was looking down at it, which Charlie thought strange. Don never avoided eye-contact, because he never avoided confrontation. Apparently, however, things were a little different today. "I just had to send him outside for a little while because…" This was another uncharacteristic moment for Don: he had to try a second time. "I wanted to ask you if you already felt up to answering some questions for me. We still have to find some of your kidnappers."

Charlie tried not to be disconcerted under his brother's scrutinizing gaze, and gave him another careful nod. "Okay," he said, and only when the word was out, he realized that it might not be that easy to do Don that favor. Until now, his mind had blessedly spared him memories of his imprisonment. Now, those memories would resurface with all the images he'd been trying not to think about and with all the pain, with all the gruesome feelings and sensations he hadn't been thinking about all this time, like for instance –

Suddenly, his breath was gone. "How's Larry," he then demanded to know, his throat more irritated now, his mouth dry as the desert. Yet he remembered that his dad had told him that Larry was helping the team – no, that wasn't true! His dad had said that Larry _had been helping_ the team, that was something entirely different. True, he hadn't mentioned an accident or something of the kind, or had he? Maybe he'd told Charlie and he just couldn't remember or he hadn't been perceptive for information at that time or –

"Hey, Charlie, calm down!" As Charlie's gaze re-focused, he could see that his brother was apparently quite shocked about his agitated state. "Relax. Larry's fine, why – oh." It had dawned on him. "Did they tell you he'd been in an accident?"

Charlie nodded, unable to suppress the painful reflex to swallow. "I saw the picture of his car," he croaked, not knowing and not caring whether it was the poor state of his body or of his soul that made him choke on the words.

Don inhaled deeply. If that was what was upsetting Charlie so much, he could deal with it. On the other hand, if his brother was talking about the picture that had been printed in the local newspaper the day after the accident, Don could very well understand his brother's agitation. "Relax, buddy, Larry wasn't in the car during the accident. He jumped out before it hit the tree. Yeah, okay, he got some bruises and some smaller injuries, but he's fine, believe me."

Charlie, flooded with relief, closed his eyes, then abruptly opened them again. "Can I talk to him?"

Don hesitated. He hated to do this to Charlie, but it was in his best interest if they solved this case as quickly as possible. "You can call him, but we have to get through those questions first, alright?"

Charlie was still staring at him wide-eyed as though he was trying to decipher from the look on his face whether he was telling him the truth about Larry, but eventually, he nodded. "Alright. Let's do this." He had tried putting a smile on his lips, but the effect was destroyed by the raucous, almost wheezing sound of his voice.

Don hesitantly returned the slight smile, but had to fight hard to keep it there. "Okay, buddy, we'll do this real quick, I promise. We only need some key information, we can do the rest at a later time." He hesitated again, unsure where to start. "I don't know how much you remember…"

He didn't go on immediately, and before he figured out what to say, he was interrupted by Charlie's low, hoarse voice. "I remember, Don. Everything."

Don looked up, right into his brother's solemn eyes. "You mean…" he started, but once again didn't know how to finish the sentence.

"Everything," Charlie repeated, and as Don looked into those dark eyes, he had, for the first time since last fall, the distinct sensation that this was actually Charlie he was talking to, not that stranger who couldn't remember them. Even so, he thought he'd never seen such a serious look in his brother's eyes, and it made it hard for him to go on. "Okay. Good." It was good, wasn't it? Charlie remembered, he remembered everything, so he could finally go back to his old life.

He could, couldn't he?

"What we need most right now is information about your kidnappers," he forced himself to say, trying to get his professionalism back. "We need to know everything you remember about the people involved, about their plans and about their hiding-places."

Charlie thought for a second before he answered. The few words he'd said so far had made it clear to him that talking wasn't doing his voice much good, so he decided to ponder his words carefully before uttering them so that he wouldn't get trapped in circuitous explanations. He also uttered the words slowly hoping, that would lessen the pain a bit. "It was some kind of dugout, underground, somewhere in the Yellowstone Park. It was the Yellowstone…?"

Don nodded affirmatively while Charlie coughed. As another ice chip melted on his tongue, he decided that this wasn't working, he had to keep his answers shorter than this. He thought for a second. "Six," he said then in a low voice, though trying not to whisper, for that hurt even more, and trying to ignore the pain. "Daniel Rosenthal, some sort of boss. Dexter Johnson. Patter, Wellman, Taccone. Mike, their hacker."

"Okay," Don said. "We know about Rosenthal, and we already have Dexter Johnson, Clifford Wellman and Wayne Taccone in custody. But we still don't know anything about the other two." He paused. It hadn't slipped his attention that this wasn't easy for Charlie, both on a mental and on a physical level, and he hated to have to do this to him. "Can you tell us anything about them? Do you know where they are? Are they still in that dugout you were talking about?"

"Dunno. Escaped," Charlie said, reducing his answers to single words. Then it occurred to him what Rosenthal had told his men directly before his escape. "Knew you were looking for them. Wanted to get provisions and hide. Locked Rosenthal and Mike in."

Don nodded, trying to keep up his professional façade. By and by, he was getting some insight on what had been going on while they had started their search in the park. "So you must have locked them in right when we arrested Wellman, Taccone and Johnson. What about Patter? Was he out too to get some provisions?"

Charlie nodded, the relief on his face indicating how loathsome talking was to him at this point, and how grateful he was for any chance to renounce on words.

"He must have slipped through our fingers then. He's probably long freed Rosenthal and that Mike by now if they haven't managed to free themselves even before that. It can't have taken them too long to figure out what happened to the other three of their group, and then they probably fled the area... Still, we should take a closer look at that dugout. Can you tell us where that is?"

Charlie thought for a second, deep lines showing on his forehead. Then, he shook his head. "The пs," he then said, not sounding very hopeful.

"You mean we should trace them back?"

Charlie nodded. "No idea after that."

"Okay," Don said, trying not to let the disappointment show in his voice or on his face. "Now about that Patter and Mike – what are their full names?"

Charlie shook his head and Don suppressed a sigh. "Can you describe them?" he asked instead.

"Patter's tall, at least six feet," he whispered, but a coughing fit immediately punished that bad choice. When it was over, he was back to speaking in a low voice and had to swallow often to suppress the urge to clear his throat. "Blonde, short hair. Chiseled features. Brawny. Mid-thirties. Mike mid-twenties, small, slight. Pale. Dark hair, little longer than Patter's."

Don finished making notes before he went on. "That's good. Any abnormalities? Scars, birthmarks or anything like that?"

Charlie thought for a second, then shook his head.

"Okay… Anything else that comes to mind? Maybe the group's plan, do you know what their agenda is?"

"Terror attacks. In Saudi Arabia."

"Terror –?" Don started and paused. That was something he hadn't expected. Charlie could see that too, it was obvious that his answer wasn't to his brother's liking. The six people from the bunker had all been Americans, born and raised there. Granted, there were those cases of Americans fighting in what Islamists liked to call jihad, but six of those special cases all in one place with no typical terrorists to join them? That sounded a little absurd to be true. Plus, he'd never seen any of their suspects pray a single time.

"You're sure about that?" he therefore asked, trying not to let his incredulity show too much. "You're saying they're Islamists?"

Charlie shook his head. "Don't think so." This was getting exhausting, on every level. His strength was running out and he could feel that he wouldn't be able to answer a whole lot of further questions. Anyway, his answers seemed to him to be so inadequate, the information so useless that he couldn't see much sense in this interview.

Don, however, hadn't given up hope that. "So if they committed terror attacks, what are their motives?"

"Dunno." G-d, he was tired.

"Anything else that might help us find them? Did they talk about any specific plans or about other hideouts?"

Charlie shook his head again. He was so tired, all he wanted to do was sleep…

And here he was being egotistical again. Don and the whole team and maybe even Larry and Amita were trying their best to apprehend the people who had held him captive, and what was he doing to contribute to that? Nothing. Not only was he causing problems for everyone, no, he didn't even try to clear up the mess he'd caused. He should just pull himself together. He should be able to remember more details, he just wasn't trying hard enough because he was afraid to let his mind go back to that place full-blast. If he hadn't been such a coward, he would have surely found something in the depths of his memory that would help them, or he should have been able to think of something else, he just had to put his mind to it, he had to keep trying, he couldn't give up, not again, not after everything that had happened, after everything they'd done.

But he was just so tired…

"I'm sorry," he whispered, not caring about the pain, almost welcoming it. His eyes had closed and he could feel tears threaten behind the protective veil his lids provided. "I'm so sorry," he repeated, and the veil couldn't stop the tears from spilling.

He could feel Don's hand on his, soft, and shut his eyes harder, using more force, trying to hold the tears back. "Hey, buddy… it's okay, you don't have to be sorry about anything. You helped us out a lot there."

Oh G-d, Don just didn't understand, he couldn't understand because he didn't know what Charlie had done, that he'd given himself up, that giving up was his nature, that he was just too weak for all this.

"Hey. It's okay, buddy. We're gonna find them. Look, everyone's working on this full-time, and things are looking good that we'll be able to get somewhere even without your testimony. Larry and Amita are currently explaining something to David and Colby about how to make our suspects talk, so that'll probably get us somewhere, you'll see. We're gonna find them, I promise you that. Don't you worry about that and just get some rest, okay?"

Charlie, unable to shut his eyes tighter, turned his head, burying his head in his cushion. He withdrew his hand from Don's light grip, trying to make him go away. He couldn't have him here now, he felt he was losing it, and not only couldn't he let Don see that happen, but Charlie felt that his presence also made him crumble faster. What would Don say if he knew that Charlie had given himself up? He certainly wouldn't be sitting here trying to comfort him. And Larry and Amita were indeed engaged to help solve this case? But they were already busy enough with finals… They were doing so much, they were all doing so much, sacrificing so much time and energy, and it was his fault, and as though that wasn't bad enough, he would have almost caused all their efforts to be in vain. He'd chosen to give up, to embrace death.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, the words hardly audible through the tears and the cushion. "I'm so sorry."


	53. Breaking the Silence

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1  
 **A/N:** Longer chapter, longer wait… sorry about that. I will keep trying to adhere to my weekly schedule, but it's getting increasingly difficult.  
By the way, reviews are greatly appreciated :)

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53\. Breaking the Silence

"Hey Don!" Megan answered the phone, surprise evident in her voice. "Have you been able to talk to Charlie already?"

"Yeah." _And I should have given him more time,_ he silently added.

"That's great! So what did he say?"

"There are two further men besides Rosenthal, one something Patter and one Mike something."

Megan noted the names, at the same time wondering what had happened in that short time to make Don's sound so withdrawn. So sad.

"Was he able to describe them?"

Don answered affirmatively, giving his colleague Charlie's description almost word-by-word.

"Good, we should be able to get somewhere with that. Anything else?"

Don paused. "Not much," he said eventually. "But he did say something about their plans. Apparently they're planning terror attacks in Saudi Arabia."

Now, it was Megan's turn to pause. "He thinks they're terrorists?" To give her credit, the dominant emotion in her voice was confusion rather than doubt. "What exactly did he say?"

"Well, he didn't say much, he still can't talk properly, but he was pretty clear on that point. I think we should make some inquiries in that direction, anyway, it's about time we learn something about their goals. Maybe Charlie can give us some more answers at a later point, but I… It seemed like he needed a break."

Megan nodded. Now she had some idea on what had apparently upset Don so much. "Alright, I'm going to tell the others. Might be valuable information for David and Colby, they're still interrogating them, and the more information they have, the easier it'll be for them to make Wellman believe that his accomplices are cooperating with us."

"Yeah, sounds good," Don said, but it seemed to Megan as though he hadn't really been listening. "Keep me posted, okay? I gotta go now, I'll talk to you later."

For simplicity's sake, Megan said her goodbyes as well and ended the call without asking him how she was supposed to keep him posted while he was in the hospital with his cell phone turned of.

She sighed. The more time passed, the more clues she found that despite how controlled and strong Don was acting, he wasn't behaving like her friend and boss, the Don she knew.

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"Couldn't catch a break?" Colby asked when Blake's team entered their small headquarters the next morning with slightly chastened features, and he couldn't help but smile a little. Sure, he was quite aware that they were working together and not against each other. There weren't any animosities between the two teams either, but he just couldn't stand people making offending remarks about things they didn't understand, in this case about their helpful mathematical hands. He completely missed the irony given by the fact that he himself hadn't been believing in the higher powers of math for too long either.

"I wouldn't say that," Blake said and he sounded a little offish. "We got a name. Cedric Patter. He's a member of Rosenthal's current unit, just like Johnson and Taccone are. But about everything else, the CIA stonewalled. They aren't ready to admit that some of their people got a skeleton in their closet, they just keep talking about the secrecy of their projects and that with secret projects like these, some things might be entirely different from what they seem – you know their gibberish. They cooperated and gave us Patter's name when they realized that they may avoid a scandal once we know where to look for the real culprits, but they still say that their people haven't done anything wrong and not even the committing magistrate's verdict to keep them detained could change their minds."

Nobody made a comment to that, but still it was clear that they were all thinking more or less the same: it was not surprising that the CIA would stay loyal to their agents – as long as they didn't know themselves what was going on there. On the other hand, if they knew that their agents were shady, it was more than a little unlikely that they would blab about that to the FBI and far more likely that they would try and deal with the matter internally by launching their own investigation. In any case, they would try – and probably succeed – in pretending that the organization itself was full of integrity, that even if some of their agents had committed crimes, it had nothing to do with the CIA. The worst part was that since Wellman was with the FBI, they couldn't very well point their finger at them.

"You got a picture of Patter?" a calm voice floated over to the group, taking its origin in the darkest corner of the room. Don.

Colby looked over to him, not quite knowing what to think about his behavior. He'd been acting strange the entire morning, he'd been very taciturn and kind of sinister. When he'd arrived at the cabin, he'd told them in brief words about the progress Charlie had made in the meanwhile, but had soon asked about the progress his team had made with the new information Charlie's statement had provided them with the evening before. Colby – and he suspected that David and Megan felt no different – had had a hard time to dispel his doubts when he'd heard about that terrorism theory, but they'd all been willing to give Charlie the benefit of the doubt and give it a try – which had proven to be a good decision. Right before Blake's team had arrived, he, David and Megan had been reporting to Don about Wellman's reaction to Charlie's information in the interrogation when the other team's entrance had interrupted the briefing. Colby had continued watching Don though and thus hadn't missed the fact that Don had hardly said a word and that he was keeping his distance, too. In any case, Colby could have sworn that it wasn't a coincidence that his boss was sitting in the only spot of the room where he could not only observe everything, but where, more importantly, nobody could decipher the expression on his face.

Blake pulled the picture of Patter's ID card from his pocket, and as far as Colby was concerned, the description that Charlie had given Don seemed quite accurate.

"You want to show that to your brother?" Blake asked. "How is he, by the way?"

"Better," Don said, deliberately looking at the picture and not at Blake, thus keeping the other team's leader from delving further into the topic. "I guess we can safely say that this is the same person Charlie was talking about," he said, still earnest. "He described him to me yesterday."

"Anything else he could tell you?" Karen Teeger chimed in.

"Not much. He was held in some kind of dugout, apparently the group's hiding-place, or one of their hiding-places. He also mentioned a certain Mike. He seems to be the youngest of the group, mid-twenties, small and slight, dark-haired. Apparently he's their guy for hacking into foreign systems. So we got six people so far that we know of, and I don't think there were more people in the dugout or Charlie would have noticed. Still, we don't know how vast their network on the outside is."

"So a dugout indeed," Blake repeated. They'd suspected that for quite some time since it seemed to be a rational solution when hiding in a national park.

Don nodded. "Apparently Wellman, Taccone and Johnson had gone off to buy provisions after they somehow heard that we were looking for them and decided to leave their hiding-place, when Charlie managed to get out."

"So they were planning to leave the dugout to find a safer hiding-place somewhere else?"

"That's what it looks like," Don said. "The bad news is that we still don't know where that dugout is. Charlie's not sure whether he can lead us there. Since he was on the run, I don't think he paid much attention to the direction he chose. On the other hand, you never know with him."

"What about their plans?" Juliet Disher asked the question of questions. "Couldn't your brother tell you anything about that?"

Don hesitated. Again, Colby thought. According to Megan, even yesterday, when he had given her the short report, he had seemed anything but sure what to think about this point.

"If I understood him correctly," Don started, "Charlie thinks they were planning terrorist attacks in Saudi-Arabia."

Blake's team was silent for some seconds.

"He thinks they're terrorists?" Blake finally asked, the skepticism evident in his voice.

Again, there was a small hesitation before Don answered, "That's what it looks like. We still don't know their motives though, nor their exact plans. Not yet."

Blake frowned. "You mean you think your brother knows more than he told you? Or are you actually still trying to make our suspects talk?"

"Why shouldn't we?" Colby chose this moment to join the conversation. He had to admit that he was enjoying this. "For one, Wellman already confessed."

Blake shook his head with disbelief. "He did not."

Colby suppressed a smile and started his report. "With a mathematical tool Professor Fleinhardt explained to us," Colby slowly savored the words, "we could make it clear to Wellman that his accomplices have more to lose than him, and with the information Charlie gave us, we could make him believe that they were already cooperating with us. So Wellman decided to cooperate before it was too late for him to cut a deal and told us everything he knew." That was the moment when his grin vanished. "Still couldn't tell us though where we could find the other three guys."

When a couple of moments later, Blake had found his voice again, he asked with a slightly mocking overtone, "So did Wellman also confess to being a terrorist?"

"He did," David said, picking up at the point where they'd been forced to stop their report to Don earlier. Since his boss was still sitting in his corner, he couldn't be sure, but the slight movement of the head he could see seemed to bespeak surprise, so apparently Don hadn't really believed that part about Charlie's statement either. Still, it was far easier to assess Blake's reaction, whose jaw had dropped a little at the words.

"It took us some time, but after a couple of hours of interrogation, he was ready to talk, and it was just then that we got the information from Charlie, which gave him the rest. We told him outright that we knew that they were a terrorist organization, and he admitted that he'd been helping the CIA agents to commit terrorist attacks in Saudi Arabia, even though the CIA's order had been to fight terrorism in this area."

"Seems like they should have read the job description more carefully," Ian said dryly.

"Wellman's got another view on things," David said. "He claims that this way of fighting terrorism is much more efficient than any other method tested so far. He said that only with that accumulation of attacks within a relatively short time, our government has sufficient cause to invade Saudi Arabia and bring democracy and peace to their country, thus eradicating terrorism instead of merely putting on band-aids."

Don's frown could be heard in his voice. "Does he really believe that?"

David shrugged. "I don't know. But that's what he says. And knowing that they committed terrorist attacks is what matters to us, we can leave the why to the court case."

"And anyway, it's always about money in the end, isn't it?" Blake inserted. "Those pseudo terrorists don't care a damn about democracy and peace, they just want to get rich." That earned him some frowns, so he was forced to go on. "What? I mean, isn't it obvious? Saudi Arabia is what, the third largest provider of oil? I guess that once they manage to get a pro-American government instituted in that country, some members of our high society might start re-counting their millions. Maybe it was even a group of investors who gave our pseudo terrorists the assignment to make sure that there'd be a change of government in Saudi Arabia. I guess our kind can't imagine the kind of money and power that's at stake with affairs like these."

"There might be something to this," Ian admitted.

"Yeah, it makes sense," Colby thought aloud. "I mean, you create a threat, you neutralize it and the government you helped is indebted to you."

"Whether they asked for your help or not," Ian muttered.

"But maybe it wasn't the money they were after," Juliet Disher mused, "but power. I mean power that isn't bought by money."

"Meaning?" Karen Teeger asked her.

"Senators, for example, right?" Colby answered for her and Disher nodded. "Once the terrorist attacks increase in number and can be stopped by our troops, those in favor of pro-active methods will save their positions for the next term, to say the least."

"Isn't that a little far-fetched?" Megan asked, a frown on her face.

Colby gave her a shrug. "I guess there's a lot of things people craving power might do. There might also be other interest groups that gain from those attacks that we haven't been considering so far."

"Because it's not our job," Don's terse voice ended the discussion. "Our job is to find the remaining members of their group. What else did Wellman have to say? Did he admit to the abduction?"

David snorted. "He couldn't really deny it given all the information we had."

"Hang on," Megan said, holding up her hand. "I still think we have to think about their motives at least a little, for I don't know about you, but I still can't understand why they became terrorists in the first place, which is something that we should know in order to predict their further actions. I mean, they were completely ordinary agents –"

This time, it was Colby's turn to snort. "Maybe a little less law-abiding than your ordinary agent."

Megan wasn't deterred. "In any case they should have realized that sooner or later, their whole scheme would be discovered. Even if the public hadn't known, their agencies would have, I mean, that's what reports are for. I just don't understand why they would take such a risk! Now they lost their job and their reputation and face charges for terrorism. I just can't get my head around the fact that they didn't see what they were getting themselves into."

Her words made them all fall silent. She had a point there. On the other hand… Wasn't she being a little too idealistic? Would there really be the outcry she was expecting if those pseudo terrorists had been successful, if their method had worked and if they had built the foundation for inserting a pro-American government in Saudi Arabia? Especially if the details didn't get out to the public, wouldn't the people who did know about it, the people with the power to decide how to advance in this case, decide, just like Wellman had done, that the sacrifices made had been worth the higher cause?

"I'm not so sure about that," he finally stated his doubts. "There are always people who manage to twist everything in a way until it serves their purposes, and I think that among the people who know about what was going on over there, there are a lot of the-end-justifies-the-means-kind of guys."

The group fell silent again, once again thinking that there was some truth about those words. It was finally Disher who broke it. "There's one thing I still don't understand: what did they need Professor Eppes for?"

David was the one who could answer that question, for in that particular point, Wellman had been quite cooperative. "They needed him to do the analysis for which targets were appropriate for terror attacks to occur. As far as we know, that's what he did, even though unknowingly. Wellman confessed that last fall, they tricked Charlie by telling him that his task was to calculate the locations most liable to attacks in order to prevent them from happening. Apparently Charlie found out about their real goals and chose to stop working for them, but that was the point when Wellman became a little less precise, we'll have to ask him about that more precisely sometime later."

Colby looked over at Don, trying to read his features. He remained silent and in the dark, so Colby could only guess what was going on in his mind. He was relatively sure that these particular facts were news to Don, that he hadn't talked to Charlie yet about his captivity last fall. He wasn't sure though whether the brothers would ever talk about that. It wasn't really a pleasant subject. At bottom, Charlie had been part of a terrorist organization, even though he hadn't known at the time that he was. Now, however, he did know, and another thing that Colby was relatively sure of was that the mathematician with his idealistic principles would have a hard time dealing with his bad conscience because of that.

"And why did Wellman go into hiding?" Teeger asked.

"He got cold feet," David replied. "When they found out that the nurse, Anna Silversteen, had been deceiving them, the group hadn't been sure how much Charlie knew and how much he would tell other people. Wellman panicked and went into hiding even before the group had figured out a plan how to proceed. And by now we also know what the plan they did make entailed, namely Charlie's abduction and the murder of Anna Silversteen."

"Who killed her? Did he tell?"

"A small-timer," Colby said. "Well, relatively small. A local henchman, a Desmond O'Reilly. Our people in Jackson are interrogating him right now."

"So he wasn't part of the group in the dugout?"

David shook his head. "No, according to Wellman, they were only six in the dugout, Rosenthal, Johnson, Taccone, Patter, Kirtland, who Charlie apparently only knows as 'Mike', and himself."

"And where is that dugout?" Blake asked. "I mean, would be quite helpful to know that, don't you think? Who knows, maybe Rosenthal's still there hiding, along with the other two."

Colby grimaced. "I doubt that. We don't really have a way to check that, though. Wellman claims he doesn't know where it is. He said he only went that way once, together with Taccone, and probably wouldn't find the way again, and it's not like we can force him. And if we took him to the area and asked him to find the way, he'd just laugh in his sleeve because that'd give him a perfect opportunity to escape from pretrial detention. We can't risk that."

"But if the dugout belongs to the CIA, it shouldn't be too hard to find, right? Its location should be documented in detail."

There was doubt plainly visible on David's face. "I don't think so. We told Wellman something of the sort, but his reaction was far from impressed. I guess this dugout is actually one that is known only to the unit that had been hiding there. I mean, we can ask the CIA if they know anything about it, but I doubt that they do."

"Do you know if they're investigating in this case as well?" Teeger asked.

Ian's reply came with characteristic sobriety. "They'd be pretty stupid if they weren't."

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Charlie awoke at half past seven in the morning. He was alone. Finally. Of course he'd been glad to see his family again after all this time, after that awful time of loneliness and fear and despair, and it had been good not to be alone. On the other hand, he'd also longed to being alone for at least a little while, to get his head clear. Now, however, he wasn't sure whether getting a clear head was actually such a great idea.

Before the memories could get to him again, he chose a compromise and picked up the phone. It had been far too long since he'd been talking, really talking, to Amita and Larry anyway. At bottom, he hadn't done that since his phone conversations last fall, when he'd been on the job for the CIA. Accordingly, he was beyond nervous when he waited for the phone to be picked up.

"Amita Ramanujan?"

And _bang_. His mind was empty. Only now did he realize that he had no idea what he should say. To make matters worse, his body was betraying him just as badly as his mind. His heart was beating in his chest forcefully, making his whole upper body tremble and rendering his voice even weaker than it already was these days.

"Hey," he managed to say, feeling that the word sounded ridiculous and completely out of place. He couldn't think of a better alternative, though. "It's me."

There was a pause at the other hand, and when she came back, he noticed that her voice was even more unstable than his, every now and then broken by soft sobs. "Charlie! Are you… How are you?"

He couldn't help but smile. "Good," he said and thought that it wasn't that much of a lie. All of a sudden, he felt a whole lot better than the day before.

Still, it took him a while to convince her that he wasn't going to drop dead any instant, and it took him even longer to get the trembling out of his voice. Yet he knew that he was safe now, he knew that everything was going to be fine, that everything was okay now, so why was there still that giant lump in his throat?

"How's Larry?" he asked eventually when her questions had finally been answered to her satisfaction. By now, his voice had started to get raspy again.

"He's okay, I think. Anyway, he's not complaining."

 _Which isn't saying much_ , Charlie thought, but didn't interrupt her.

"I guess the worst part was the shock. And, of course, the fact that his beloved car is only a pile of junk now."

Charlie was silent. He knew how much the vintage car had meant to his friend, it had almost been an obsession. And now the car had been severely damaged and Larry seriously hurt, all because of him.

"He worshipped the car," he said quietly.

Amita had to be aware of what was going on in his head. "Charlie – in the end, it was just a car, and he knows that. Believe me, Larry was much less concerned about that than he was about you." Her voice, which had become steady during the conversation, was getting more broken again, even though she seemed to be trying to keep it together. "And he wasn't the only one."

* * *

The conversation with Amita made him feel a lot better, and her apparently too. When they, a little reluctantly, ended the call, it was eight fifteen and Charlie decided to rest for another fifteen minutes. The phone conversation with Amita, as pleasant as it had been, had taken its toll on him. Besides, he knew that Larry was usually in his office at half past seven (Pacific Standard Time) to do some last preparations for his first lecture and have some breakfast.

It was three or four minutes to half past eight when Charlie couldn't wait any longer and tried the number of Larry's office. After the conversation with Amita, he didn't feel quite as nervous anymore.

Maybe he should have.

The voice that answered the phone after the fifth ring sounded sleepy. Had he been mistaken? But he couldn't have made a mistake calculating the time zone difference, and Larry was a man of habits… "Did I wake you?"

There was silence and the other end and Charlie could practically see his friend's confused face. "Who is there?"

Charlie realized only now that his voice, especially over the phone, probably couldn't be recognized very well. He himself was getting more and more used to the raspy sound.

His nervousness was back with a vengeance. "Um – it's me. Charlie."

This time, the silence was even longer than before and Charlie's nervousness increased. Amita's response had been somewhat more eloquent when she'd realized that he'd been the caller. In the end, it was Charlie who couldn't hold back his question any longer, the question that had pushed him forward all the way through the national park, "How are you?"

There were two more seconds of silence at the other and, then his friend was back with his characteristic confusion, "Did you just ask me how _I_ was? I mean, I could be wrong, but I think the more pressing question in this conversation would be how you are."

"I saw a picture from your accident."

"Oh," Larry just said before he got back something of his usual eloquence. "Well, in that case I think I should tell you that everything was not as bad as it looked, even though I must say that it's an experience I would rather chose to avoid in the future."

Charlie wasn't deterred. "Are you okay?"

"I am," he said, and when Charlie detected the quiet smile in his voice, he breathed a sigh of relief. "But what about you?" And just like that, the smile had become a frown.

"I'm okay," Charlie said relatively truthfully. "Still a little exhausted, but otherwise… okay." As if to mock him, the pain in his leg came back with a vengeance at that, but he decided that stretching the truth a little was still better than lamenting. Wallowing in self-pity wouldn't lessen the pain either.

Now that those two questions had been dealt with, the two friends fell silent again, none of them able to think of something similarly important to talk about.

"Do you still sleep in your office?" Charlie asked eventually, remembering that his phone call had apparently awakened his friend.

"Every now and then, yes," Larry replied. "I've found it both the most comfortable and rational solution during finals."

"It's – I'm such an idiot, I completely forgot about finals. And my dad even mentioned it. So you've probably been working for most part of the night?" Since he knew his friend, he didn't even wait for an answer, but went on, "I'm sorry, Larry, I didn't mean to make all this more stressful for you than it already is."

There was a sigh at the other end. "Charles, you may believe me when I tell you that I far more prefer talking to you to taking a nap at my desk. There's most certainly nothing stressful about that."

Charlie bit his lip. "That's not what I meant. Not really. I meant… This whole… abduction thing, you and Amita had to do a lot of work on top of all your other responsibilities."

"I hope you're not serious about that."

When Charlie remained silent, he could hear a small incredulous laugh at the other end. "Charles, I'm sorry to tell you this, but you're not making a lot of sense. Apart from your questionable comparison of doing work in order to prepare for finals and doing 'work' in order to help find you, Amita and I did what we did on our own account, it wasn't you who asked for our help."

"I did," Charlie said, very quietly. It hurt him to say it, and his sore throat had little to do with that. "I made those πs. They were directed specifically at you."

"And if you hadn't built them, we would have had to come up with ideas of our own and work out more elaborate algorithms. Our actions are always of such a degree of complexity that –"

Before his friend could delve deeper into a philosophical treaty about causality, Charlie interrupted him, "I'm sorry."

He could hear a sigh at the other end. "Charles – I'm sorry if I failed to make myself clear, but none of us is making you any reproaches."

"But…" Charlie started, though he couldn't go on and swallowed the words down, _But only because you don't know that I've given up._ That was something he couldn't tell them, however. He couldn't. What would they say when they learned what he'd done? They'd be disappointed, certainly, probably angry too, at least some of them. Don would certainly be angry.

When they had ended their conversation few minutes later, Charlie forced himself to make a decision. He knew he couldn't go on like this, he couldn't remain in the indefinable balance between knowing what he'd done and not knowing if the others would ever learn about it. He had to decide whether he would tell them or whether he would keep it a secret forever, he needed certainty, something to hold on to.

So what should he do? Something told him that it made no sense burdening them with that kind of knowledge, but he had the nagging suspicion that the thought was nourished by feelings he shouldn't be too proud of, namely fear and shame. He was ashamed for what he'd done, ashamed for giving up, and he was afraid of their reaction, afraid of being repudiated once they found out how he'd let them down.

But in the end, he was right, it was irrational, wasn't it? There was no reason to tell them, because it was over now, and it hadn't had any effect in the real world, none they could see. For everything had taken place solely in his mind and it would never come out into the open if he didn't let it. In the end, wouldn't it be cruel to tell them? Wouldn't it make them unnecessarily sad and angry? What good could come out of telling the truth? It would be so much better for all of them if he just buried this knowledge deep down inside him.

A cold hand had taken hold of his heart, making him gasp. That was it, that was the mistake in his logic. Even though all those things had taken place in his mind, he was wrong in assuming that they had no effect on the outside. He had proof that they had, because he'd made that mistake once already. He'd convinced himself that burying the truth about his identity and denying his innermost feelings was the best way to keep himself safe, him and his loved ones. In the end, however, that was exactly what had broken him last fall, and he couldn't let it happen once again.


	54. Picking up the Shards

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1  
 **A/N:** Thanks a lot for your reviews! But welcome as they are, there's no need to apologize for reviews not left ;)

* * *

54\. Picking up the Shards

With a stony expression on his face, Don stood behind the two-way mirror, his jaw set and his teeth gnashing. His right hand was clenched to a fist while his left one was restlessly playing with the hem of his jacket. He realized now that it had been a good idea to stay outside and merely watch the interrogation being conducted by David and Colby instead of being a part of it himself, and he also realized that it had been a good idea to listen to Megan's advice and stay away from the police headquarters in Ennis. Well, until now. He'd decided to relieve himself of that self-imposed restriction and he'd thought he'd be okay with this now. He had the knowledge that Charlie was okay, that he would come home some time next week. He'd thought this knowledge would be enough to get him through this.

As it turned out, it wasn't. No matter how much he reminded himself of the fact that his brother was going to be fine, he couldn't shake his rage. He tried concentrating on the mere facts, on Colby's and David's way to conduct the interrogation, on technicalities, but found that he couldn't. He couldn't stop staring at the suspect, Wayne Taccone, his eyes firing daggers at the man that had been holding his brother captive for days. The man that had once been on their side, an agent like them, sworn to protect and serve.

Filled with a kind of hatred he couldn't and wouldn't let go of, even though it was making it hard for him to breathe, Don examined the suspect's face. He had brown eyes, even though they didn't held the warmth that could be found in Charlie's, black hair, a slightly darker complexion. His file stated that he was a third-generation immigrant, his grandfather having immigrated to the States almost eighty years ago.

The expression on Taccone's face was slick. Unrevealing. Don could only guess what might be going on in that head right now, whether or not Taccone was insecure or frightened. He certainly didn't look like it. He seemed very sure of himself, and in any case not ready to cooperate. Not even after David and Colby had started to confront him, in well-dosed packages, with the new information they had gathered. It didn't have any effect on him, though. He kept telling them that he didn't know where his accomplices were, that there were no other hiding-places, no emergency plans. The worst thing was that they couldn't even tell whether or not he was lying.

And did it even matter now? They were going to stop the interrogation soon anyway. Megan, David and Colby would return to L.A. in a couple of hours. The search for Daniel Rosenthal, Cedric Patter and Mike Kirtland wasn't their business anymore, but the task had been assigned to Blake's team, and Don was completely disillusioned. He was quite aware that their task wasn't very likely to succeed and that Blake's team and Ian would return to Virginia within a few days as well. It was improbable that they would find further clues up here. What would remain for them to do was paperwork, writing up the reports and putting away the files to turn to a new case. At least that was what Blake's team would do, for one could never predict the actions Ian Edgerton would take. Maybe he would stay on the case, maybe not. One thing was certain, though: Don wouldn't rest as long as those three perpetrators were still on the loose.

For now, he had some personal time to take care of that, for he wouldn't return home with his team, but with his family. That still gave him a couple of days to learn more about the route those three men might have taken, and he would make ample use of that. Those were the men who had kidnapped his brother, they were three men that still presented a risk to him and Don would be damned if he stopped looking for them before he'd find them.

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Alan still wasn't convinced by a long shot. "Just be sensible, Charlie, it's far too soon for that," he tried to explain to his son.

"To soon?" Charlie's voice, still not back to its usual strength, cracked a little. If he hadn't heard the words loudly and clearly, he would have thought he had misunderstood his dad. This way, the only reasonable explanation to him was that his father hadn't thought a second about those words before uttering them. He just wasn't sure whether he'd have the energy to explain to him that it was far from _to_ _o_ _soon_ , that on the contrary he'd been longing for over half a year to come home, that he was longing for everything to become normal again, that he didn't want his dad and Don having to stay up here in Montana just because of him, that he wanted to see Amita and Larry again, that he wanted to go home…

"We'll see what your doctor has to say about that," his dad said, and it seemed to Charlie as though he was pretending to compromise while at the same time he was sure to have an ally in the doctor.

Charlie chose this moment to turn his eyes to the clock on the nightstand, thus turning away from his dad and saving himself from having to think of an answer that wouldn't start a fight. According to the clock, it was past half past six in the evening. Time for the ward round.

And indeed, few seconds later the door to his room opened and Dr. Bell entered, the ward physician.

"Good evening, how are you feeling tonight?"

"Much better," Charlie said, and it wasn't even a lie. "That's why I meant to ask you when you plan to release me."

Alan thought that Charlie was rushing it a bit to raise this topic, just as he was rushing it with his desire to leave the hospital. Patients had to be patient, though.

The doctor studied the file, grimaced a little and finally said, "No sooner than Tuesday."

Alan stared at him. Tuesday? That was the day after tomorrow! There was no way Charlie could leave the hospital the day after tomorrow. He tried his best to remain calm and polite, though. "Don't you think this would be a little too soon?"

"Dad!" Charlie protested, but was ignored by the two elder men.

"It would be a release with certain strings attached," Dr. Bell admitted. He seemed to have a very clear idea on what was going on in the other men's heads. "He'd have to rest a lot and keep a close watch on his fluid and food intake, but if those conditions are met with, I don't see why his state should deteriorate outside the hospital." Now he turned towards his patient. "At bottom, you are healthy, Dr. Eppes – well, apart from the fracture in your leg of course. You're probably still feeling rather weak and exhausted due to the dehydration and the effects of the blood poisoning. This is completely normal though and should pass with time, but only if you grant your body the necessary rest and resources to regenerate. You'll have to sleep a lot, drink a lot and keep an eye on your food and mineral intake, and you'll absolutely have to avoid any stress or exertion. If these criteria are met and if you don't feel worse tomorrow, I can agree to releasing you Tuesday morning. In that case, the fracture of your tibia should be dealt with in an outpatient treatment, but that would be the least of our worries."

"Alright," Charlie said and couldn't quite ban the triumphant overtone from his voice. "Thanks, Dr. Bell."

Alan, however, wouldn't abandon the field so easily. "But what about transport? Charlie's planning on returning home to California once he gets released, surely Tuesday would be too early for _that_ , right?"

"As a matter of fact, the mobility problem is why I chose Tuesday instead of tomorrow. Granted, California isn't round the corner, but I would still say it shouldn't be too much of a problem if you feel you're up to it, Dr. Eppes. We can see tomorrow where we stand." Alan was about to protest, but Dr. Bell had some practice in getting out of affairs he had neither business nor desire being a part of. "You'll probably want to discuss that further privately, I'll leave you to that. Have a nice evening," he said and an instant later, was out of the door, leaving behind the two conflicted parties.

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Don was feeling rather weary as he dragged himself through the hospital corridors. G-d, he'd be so relieved once they'd finally be able to go back home. He'd never say that, however. Charlie had gone through so much lately that he really didn't need Don to put pressure on him now. The thing that mattered was that he was getting back on his feet, and if they'd have to stay up here for another couple of days, that would be more than worth it.

He'd hardly entered Charlie's room when he realized that something was up. True, his brain was a bit slower than usual due to his overall exhaustion, but he couldn't miss the fact that there was a conflict smoldering. He didn't have much time though to wonder what it was about, for his family had noticed his arrival and was ready to drag him into whatever this was.

"Donnie, finally, it's good you're here," his dad greeted him. "Maybe you can talk some sense into your brother and make it clear to him that he should take better care of himself."

"Dad, I'm not –" Charlie began, but apparently didn't know how to make his point and turned towards Don, seeking support, "Dad thinks I should stay here for who knows how long, but I'm _fine_. And the doctor also said he's going to release me Tuesday."

"At the earliest!" Alan reminded him. "He too would prefer having you here a little longer than that."

"No, he wouldn't, because if I leave Tuesday he's got one patient less to worry about."

Don didn't know for how long this argument had been in progress, but in any case it was long enough for Charlie to have become so hoarse his voice sounded more like Darth Vader than like himself. Granted, due to the dehydration his voice hadn't been normal ever since they'd found him, but it had actually steadily improved. As long as he hadn't overexerted himself.

"Come on, Charlie, you have to be sensible!" their dad continued his insistence.

"So Tuesday, huh?" Don said before Charlie had a chance to strain his voice even further, stating the words calmly and without taking either of their sides.

They turned towards him, Charlie a hopeful expression on his face. "Exactly," he said, obviously thinking he'd found an ally. "They want to keep me here tomorrow for some further observation, but we could go back home sometime Tuesday."

"How?" Don asked.

"Don! You cannot be serious!" Alan interjected. "How can you –"

"I just want to know how this would work," Don mollified him. G-d, he had to get rid of that head-ache somehow, and this situation wasn't helping one bit. "How do you plan on going back home?"

"By plane," Charlie said without hesitation.

Don frowned. "You can do that?"

"Of course. I'll probably need some help with the crutches and everything, but if you considered that a crucial hurdle, we'd have to stay up here for another couple of weeks." Out of the corners of their eyes, they both could see the thought forming behind their dad's forehead, and Charlie quickly added, "Don't even think about it."

"I'm just thinking that you shouldn't rush anything now," their dad said, still upset. "You're still –"

"I'm not rushing anything, Dad!" Charlie protested, and his tone left no doubt as to how tired he was getting of this argument.

"Alright," Don said, trying to mediate before the conflict would get out of control. "Why don't we just look at the facts: Charlie says he's feeling well enough to go back home, and he's the one who should know it best." He went on talking before his dad could protest, "I think we should just give it a try. After all, he just has to get on a plane, not walk all the way to Pasadena. We'll just have to avoid any form of exertion and then he should be fine. Alright?"

Alan was silent while Charlie assented, satisfied. Don breathed a small sigh of relief. For tonight, the matter was settled, so there was one less thing to worry about. That was good. He wouldn't have had any strength for more to come, he was beat.

"Okay then, I'll see you guys tomorrow, I'm heading back to the hotel."

He was feeling a twinge of a guilty conscience, thinking that the argument might re-ignite once he left. In the end, however, his exhaustion trumped those considerations, for he feared he might collapse there and then if he didn't grant his body some rest soon. He had no idea that his appearance was more than enough to distract the remaining Eppes men from their disagreement.

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Charlie was relatively sure that he didn't like what he was seeing there. Ever since he'd woken up in the hospital, he'd noticed – and he'd seen it ever more clearly the better he had gotten – how exhausted Don looked. It wasn't hard to guess where that exhaustion came from. From what Charlie had learned, it seemed as though Don had been looking for him more or less incessantly for the past couple of weeks, day and night. He'd hardly slept anymore and had been constantly living in a state of tension. All because of him.

Charlie swallowed. There was no way around it, if he hadn't accepted that stupid assignment last fall, none of this would have happened. Even worse, Don had seen right from the beginning that he shouldn't have accepted the job, he had vainly tried to dissuade him, and now he was paying for Charlie's stubbornness.

"Dad?" His voice was thin and he knew he couldn't solely blame the dehydration for that.

"What is it?" his father asked absentmindedly. He was still looking thoughtfully at the closed door behind which Don had disappeared few moments earlier.

Charlie hesitated, not knowing how to form into words what was on his mind. In the end, he just asked (and it didn't just make him feel a little silly, but also more than a little uncomfortable), "Is he alright?"

He felt even more silly when he heard his father's soft and bitter laugh. He knew he shouldn't ask questions everyone knew the answer to. At first he thought his dad would leave it at that, but after a couple of seconds he got a reply after all. "No," he said, still staring at the door as though he was still seeing the stooped form of his eldest son there. "No, I don't think so."

Charlie swallowed. He was so not comfortable with this conversation, but he knew he couldn't hide from it. They had to find a solution to this problem, both for Don's sake and for theirs, so he consulted the one person who usually had the solutions to that kind of problems. "What should we do?"

At least his dad finally took his eyes off the door, turning towards him, but the look Charlie could see in those eyes wasn't the calm one of the man with all the answers. Instead, it seemed troubled and sad.

"I don't know," came his quiet reply after some time. Again, he let some moments pass before he went on, "Wait and see, I guess."

Charlie looked down at his hands and nodded, pretending to be satisfied with that answer. These days everything seemed to amount to that debilitating waiting, to a waiting that he still didn't know how it was supposed to make things better.

He looked up, unable to keep quiet any longer. "And what if that won't work?"

Alan raised his eye-brows, eyeing him seriously. "In that case," he said slowly, accentuating every word, "I think talking would be the method of choice."

Charlie looked back down at his hands. So talking. Even worse than waiting. Well, actually it wasn't him who had a problem with that, not really. He would have confided in Don, probably, but he had no illusions about the onesidedness of that feeling. Don never let it show what was going on inside him, and he especially wouldn't let his little brother come close to him, that was just one more thing which showed how different they were.

On the other hand… It was obvious that Don wasn't okay, that he was fighting inner demons, and if that was the case, wasn't it Charlie's duty to help him, especially after everything that Don had done for him? And if he wanted to help him, he first had to understand what the problem was, so in a way, it was his brotherly duty to figure out what was going on with Don, and that meant that he had to make him talk, whether Don wanted to or not.

Still… he knew that Don wouldn't get involved with something like that. He wasn't a touchy-feely guy. If Charlie tried to talk to him about his emotional state, he would either pretend that nothing was wrong (which was one of the better case scenarios) or tell him in no uncertain ways to mind his own business, and Charlie didn't think he could take that kind of rejection from his brother right now.

And he didn't want to think about it. He was just so tired… Why did everything have to be so complicated? Things were supposed to be good now. This whole time, Charlie had been fervently longing to be back with his family, because he'd been convinced that once they were together again, everything would be okay. Now, however, he was here, and all he could see were devastation and despondency. Each of them had their cross to bear, and each of them was facing problems that were keeping them awake at night. Yet none of them seemed to be ready to seek each other's company to talk about that.

He sighed. He was in no position to point the finger. He knew he should start talking, he'd even made a promise to himself to do that when he had realized that he had to tell his dad and Don and Amita and Larry about his betrayal, that he couldn't live with keeping it a secret from them that he'd given himself up. Until now, however, he'd kept his silence and done what they were all doing, keeping to himself and not letting anyone in on what was bothering him, and he hadn't even broken his promise by doing that since that promise didn't come with any deadline attached. However, he felt that the longer he waited to tell them, the harder it would become and the more the impending task would depress him.

He looked at his dad who was standing at the window now, looking outside into the night. He even opened his mouth and thought that he would do it there and then, but he didn't have the guts. How would his dad react to news like that? How would they all react? And was it really necessary to bring up again what had happened in the park? It was _over…_ Yet he knew why he'd resolved to tell them, because deep down he knew that it wasn't really over, not as long as those moments kept coming back to him to haunt him.

He turned his head away from his dad and closed his eyes, not wanting to see the hospital room, not wanting to see anything that reminded him of everything that had happened lately. He could feel desperation rise inside him. Why couldn't everything just go back to the way it had been?


	55. Back for Good

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1

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55\. Back for Good

That they would 'just avoid any form of exertion', as Don had put it, had been a very optimistic and especially a completely unrealistic assumption. The taxi ride to the airport was by itself an ordeal and matters were complicated by the fact that, as they realized only now, with his cast, Charlie needed more legroom than could be gotten in the narrow footwell of a car. Eventually, they put him on the back seat with his foot resting on Don's lap. Luckily for all of them, the ride wasn't very long.

Since on the plane he had an aisle seat, the problem with the legroom wasn't as serious there, and it was another good thing that the flight wasn't a long one. It was, however, long enough to make the alarming lack of conversation apparent. This wasn't the place for talking privately though.

They were the last ones to step off the plane and had to find out that going down the stairs was much harder than going up. In a team effort however they managed to bring Charlie back on terra firma without breaking another leg.

The closer they got to the exit, the more agitated Charlie became and as a consequence, his movements with the crutches became less and less coordinated. Then he saw them, waving their arms euphorically, and he quickened his steps even more.

The crutches made the embrace a little awkward, but Larry and Amita held him tightly enough so that he couldn't have fallen if he'd wanted to. Amita was laughing and crying at the same time, saying, with a choked voice, how glad she was that he was back, while Larry was silent, patting his back rather forcefully and beaming in his characteristic muted manner. Charlie had difficulties holding his tears back. He'd just been waiting so long to see them again, and only now did he fully realize just how much he'd missed them. He was breathing in the scent of Amita's hair, trying to burn her scent, the feeling of her body against his into his memory so that he would never forget it ever again.

As Amita drove them to the house, Charlie, on the passenger's seat (luckily Amita's car was a little bigger than the taxi that had taken them to the airport), took a deep breath. This was it. This was home. After all this time, basically after more than six months, he was finally back home, and the realization filled him with sudden weakness. It was over. This nightmare was over, he could relax now, he was safe and home and everything was going to turn out well now. The knowledge made exhaustion descend upon him, and now that the day's tension was falling off of him, he realized what a strenuous day it had been. All of a sudden, he could hardly keep his eyes open, and all he wanted to do was sleep, fall in his bed, just let himself sink into these soft cushions…

With another heartfelt embrace and few words, he, Amita and Larry said their goodbyes. His longing for sleep made the separation much easier than he'd initially thought.

His dad had just opened the door as it briefly crossed his mind that he should cherish this moment. He was just too tired to do that though, and he had to focus all his energy on following his father's words.

"So how do you want to do this? Should Don and I help you upstairs or –"

"I'm taking the couch," Charlie interrupted him. It took him about a minute to put his plan into action while Don and Alan were tending to their luggage. Considering his restricted mobility, it was a good thing he had none of that. He let himself sink on the couch and managed with adequate success to position his leg in a way so that it hardly hurt anymore and finally let his head fall back into the soft cushions.

"What do you want for dinner?" Alan asked as he stepped back into the living room and stopped, a soft smile on his lips. Charlie couldn't hear him anymore. He'd fallen asleep.

They were home.

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"Donnie! You're up early!"

Don turned around as his dad joined him, giving Charlie's sleeping form a short glance while he was at it before tending to his coffee again. "Yeah," he said softly, completely missing the fact that his dad wouldn't have needed an answer.

Alan sighed deeply as he sat down next to him. "I can still hardly believe that it's finally over."

The tea spoon in Don's hand stopped its way short, hovering some inches above the cup. At the same time, Don lifted his head, giving his dad an incredulous look. What he saw, however, increased his bewilderment. His dad actually seemed convinced of his words.

Don slowly shook his head, still a bit unsure whether he should deprive the old man from that illusion, but facts were facts. "It's not over yet."

His dad gave him a quick glance portending a certain misgiving and fear. "What do you mean?"

"The case isn't solved yet."

Alan waited, but that was all that Don seemed to be willing to say to that. "But then..." he finally asked, searching for the right words, "what happens next?"

Don shrugged, a gesture that in his case suggested a feeling of helplessness rather than of indifference. "We've still got to find three of them that are still out there," he said, choosing his words carefully. It had been inevitable that his dad had learned a thing or two about the details of this case, but the fact that they were dealing with terrorism was something that should better remain under wraps, at least for the time being.

"What do you mean by 'we'?" his dad asked and a certain wariness had entered his voice. "Surely you're not going back to work for another couple of days."

Don took the last sip of his coffee and turned away. Did his dad really not see? "I have to," he said tersely and started the search for his car keys. He only now realized that he hadn't needed them since he'd flown to that clinic in Nebraska, for the second time. A lifetime seemed to have passed since then.

"What do you mean, you have to? Don, look at me!"

Indeed, he turned around to face him.

"What you really have to do is take a break. I mean, look at you! You're thoroughly exhausted, you're –"

"You really don't see it, do you!" Don snapped. "Did you hear me just now when I told you that three of the men who took Charlie captive are still out there? What do you think they're gonna do once they get his hands on him? He can describe them, Dad, he can testify against them, so are you sure you still want me to stay here and sit on my hands?"

His father just stared at him and Don immediately regretted his harsh words. Still, they were true: as long as those terrorists were out there, Charlie was still in danger, and as long as he was, Don wouldn't just sit here and abandon him again.

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It was afternoon when Charlie finally awoke to more than a dozing state and sat up.

"How are you feeling?" was Alan's first question.

"Good," Charlie said truthfully, rubbing his eyes to get a little more alert. "Just a little tired."

Alan raised his eyebrows at that and gave the clock on the wall a meaningful glance. True, he wasn't a math professor like his son, but he too was quite able to do the math to figure out that Charlie had just been sleeping for almost eighteen hours.

It was then that Charlie had done the math as well. "Is it really that late already?" he asked, dismay evident in his voice. He was sitting up straighter now and was looking around the room, apparently trying to get his orientation back. "Where's Don?"

Alan stood from his armchair before he answered, using the distraction to hide the emotions on his face. "In the office," he said, giving his voice the best semblance of normalcy that he could muster.

"At the FBI?"

"That's where he works." He could see the frown on his son's face that told him that Charlie had some idea of what had made his brother return to his job so soon. It shouldn't be too difficult for him to figure out that he was still in danger, but Alan thought that he might still be able to distract him from those hardly uplifting thoughts. "Are you hungry? I could make you some chicken soup."

Before Charlie could dissuade him from doing that, he disappeared into the kitchen. As he stood there preparing the soup, the memory of his wife's illness hit him hard, but instead of bringing him down, that memory made everything suddenly seem so normal. After everything they had gone through, this was the first time that Alan actually felt some peace. Despite of what Don had said this morning, everything did indeed seem fine now. Charlie was home, the family was back together, and they were all fine. Alright, Charlie still had to rest and get back to his full health, but to Alan it felt as though Charlie just had the flu and was staying home for a couple of days while he was staying here with him, taking care of his sick son until he was better again. It was like when he and Don had been kids and had had to stay home from school. True, usually it had been Margaret to take care of them in those occasions, but over the years Alan too had gotten enough experience in that field to almost fall back into this mind-set. It was like one of those situations when time wasn't important, when family was all that mattered, family and the feeling of safety and comfort.

He sighed deeply. Everything was back to normal. Everything was fine.

Or it would have been, if it hadn't been for those men who were still trying to do away with his son.

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"Good… good. And what about the transport? Have you taken care of that?"

"Yeah, we have," Colby stated patiently. Ever since the team had arrived in L.A., they'd coordinated with the people in Montana how to go about the transfer of their suspects from the detention cell in Ennis to a regular prison in California. "Relax, Don, the three of them will safely arrive at the federal prison, and as soon as they're there, you'll be able to grill them again." He accompanied his words with a smile, hoping that might raise his boss's spirits a bit, but his attempt was futile.

"The guards need to be careful," was all that Don said, his tone grim and professional. "Three of their group are still on the loose, I don't want to give them any opportunity to free the other ones."

"I don't think you need to worry about that," Colby said, but seeing Don's hard gaze added, "I'll tell them to be on the lookout, though."

Don nodded tersely and Colby disappeared, thinking that they might all breathe a sigh of relief once their three suspects were under lock and key again.

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Don didn't even take the time to take a breath after Colby had left him before he tackled the next problem and hurried to his appointment with his boss, Jonathan D. Stevens.

"Agent Eppes," he was greeted, "glad to see you're all back safely. Why did you want to see me?"

Since he knew that his boss wasn't very keen on making small talk, he came right to the point. "I'd like to request personal protection for Charlie Eppes."

Stevens raised an eye-brow. "For your brother," he specified.

"Yes. He's been kidnapped by a group half of whose members are still on the loose."

Stevens nodded. "I'm aware of that." He waited a second, then went on, "Do you have any specific clues as to the current whereabouts of those missing group members?"

"Not yet, Sir, but we're working on it."

Stevens nodded again, his eyes staring into Don's, searching. "Is that all?" he finally asked. "You could have just put in a form for personal protection instead of setting up this meeting."

Don tried to keep it up, but still couldn't help losing some of his self-assuredness; his request was just too much out of the ordinary. "First of all, I didn't think we could afford to waste more time with forms. And secondly, it seems as though in this special case..." He didn't know how to finish the sentence. Instead, he just pulled himself together and spit it out, "I came here to ask you to commandeer myself as my brother's security detail. I think you're aware of what he went through these last couple of months. I just think it would be best for him if he didn't know that he was still in danger, which can hardly be accomplished if he's aware of being guarded."

Stevens lifted the right corner of his mouth ever so slightly. "And besides," he said and there was some humor to be heard in his voice, "you don't trust anyone else with this task."

Don opened his mouth to protest, but Stevens cut him off. "I can consent to your request, Agent Eppes, if I can be certain that there are no secondary affairs going on. That means that you will report regularly both on your job as a security detail and on the progress of the case, and as soon as I tell you that you're services are needed somewhere else, you will follow my command without discussion. Are we clear on that?"

Don nodded. That was about as much as he could have hoped for. "Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

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"Don! You're back already?"

"I thought you'd be happy about that," Don quietly replied with mock indignation and a smile, which, however, didn't quite reach his eyes. "How's Charlie?"

His dad shrugged. "Better, I think. He's sleeping a lot, he even slept through Amita's and Larry's visit. I guess yesterday was a bit much."

Don puckered his forehead as his eyes landed on his brother's sleeping form on the couch. To him, he looked exactly like he had this morning. "Has he woken up at all?" he asked and felt panic rise inside him.

When he saw his father nod, his heartbeat slowly calmed down again. "He did, about an hour ago. I made him eat a little. Probably not as much as he should have eaten, but it's a start."

Don nodded, a bit absent-minded. He was studying the still form, thinking that despite the peaceful image, he was still entitled to worry. He knew that this picture of tranquility was misleading and that they were just in the eye of the cyclone. He also knew that he should question Charlie once again, gather some further information from him, but until now, he hadn't dared doing that. The memory of what that had done to his brother the last time was still vivid on his mind, and he had no desire to inflict further pain on him. Yet, he knew they had to go over his experiences once more, it was for Charlie's own sake. However, he managed to convince himself that there was no need to do this tonight, that he could let Charlie rest for a little while longer and write up his report in the morning. Nobody would get to him until then, Don would make sure of that.

Charlie continued sleeping during dinner and Don and Alan decided that apparently, his body was more in need of rest than in need of food, so they let him sleep, putting some crackers next to the water bottle on the coffee table just in case.

After his dad had gone to bed, Don remained in the living-room for another while, lost in thoughts, until he realized that he was yawning non-stop. He checked all the doors and windows once more, made sure that Charlie had everything he might need for the night, and went upstairs to his bedroom, leaving his door wide open.

When he was lying in his bed, he waited for sleep to come, thinking that it shouldn't take long, given how tired he'd just been. He was wrong. As exhausted as his body was, he just couldn't find rest. He was agitated, nervous, and hardly managed to keep his eyes closed. He was lying there tense and ready to jump out of bed any moment, as soon as the slightest noise or draft of air would tell him that Charlie might need his help.

There was no noise and no draft. Don was lying there for another couple of minutes, he knew that silence was misleading, that it was still possible that the peaceful image would change in a matter of seconds and that if he fell asleep, any change might mean danger for his brother.

He sighed. It was of no use. He'd have no choice other than to sleep in his dad's armchair down in the living-room if he wanted to catch any sleep at all.

He grabbed his comforter and tapped down the stairs. Everything was still quiet and his brother still sleeping. Good. He sat up camp at a yard's distance from Charlie's momentary sleeping-place. If anything happened, Don just had to notice now, there was no other way.

He was having a nightmare. He saw Charlie being dragged away by masked men. His little brother's frightened face was staring up at him, imploring him to help him. Don was running after them, but he couldn't get closer, he couldn't move from the spot. He extended his arms, but couldn't reach his brother. Suddenly, a hole opened up in front of them, and the masked men threw Charlie down into it. Charlie struggled to get up, he tried to get out of the hole, but it was too deep and steep and narrow for him to succeed. Don watched the men filling up the hole with dirt. He stood motionlessly, unable to do anything as they filled the hole higher and higher. By now Charlie was dug in to his chest, unable to move, and the men didn't stop throwing dirt at him. Don wanted to do something, to stop them, to somehow fight his brother's tormentors, but he couldn't, his body just didn't move, it was like it had turned into stone. He couldn't help Charlie.

By now his brother had somehow managed to free his arms, not that it was helping him much. The men continued filling up his grave, only his head could still be seen and still they didn't stop. Don could see and hear as his brother throw dirt out of his way, but it was of no use, the earth was piling up around him faster than he could get it away. Now even his head was covered with dirt, and Don held his breath. He didn't dare making a sound, and indeed he could hear his brother's voice, soft and low, just a murmur from under the dirt. _Don_ , he called _, Don, no… Please don't… Don!_

Don opened his eyes. He was covered in sweat, his breathing was rapid. Frantically, he looked over to the couch, hoping to see his brother there sleeping peacefully, to see his suspicion that everything hadn't been real confirmed. What he did see over there, however, turned his heart to ice: Charlie seemed to be fighting with someone.


	56. Nightmares

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1  
 **A/N:** Sorry for the delay – again. It's another really long chapter though and I had to change a lot, so I hope you'll forgive me. I also hope you'll enjoy :)

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56\. Nightmares

A moment later, Don had jumped up from his seat, but his feet instantly got caught up in his comforter. Damn it, he'd let his guard down! Someone must have entered the house and now his brother was engaged in a fight of life and death!

Without further hesitation, Don meant to throw himself at the attacker when he realized: there wasn't anyone. Charlie was fighting with his own comforter.

For a second, Don just stood there, trying to understand what he saw, trying to figure out where the attacker had gone. Eventually, when his adrenaline level had abated a little, the scales fell from his eyes: Charlie was having a nightmare as well.

Suddenly overwhelmed with relief, Don closed his eyes, taking deep breaths. It had been a false alarm. Everything was alright. Everything was fine.

The calm encompassed him only for a couple of moments before his eyes popped open again. His assessment might be true objectively, but it certainly wasn't true for Charlie. His little brother was still fighting with his comforter, with the demons disturbing the rest he still needed so badly, and he was still constantly mumbling Don's name with a tone of desperation in his voice that made Don choke.

In an instant, he was squatting down next to his brother, laying his hand on his shoulder as gently as he could. "Hey, buddy, wake up."

Indeed, Charlie opened his eyes, but what Don saw in them made him lose his balance. The dim light coming in through the windows didn't reveal much, but it did reveal that those eyes held an amount of panic that was downright alarming. When he managed to breathe again, he changed his position to a kneeling one. "Hey," he started, thinking that it was no small miracle that he'd managed to utter the single sound, and frantically searching for something to go on, for words that would make this better for his brother, whatever this was. He didn't find any.

"Don?"

Don swallowed. His brother's voice was frail and soft. Filled with fear.

All of a sudden, Don felt himself thrown back to that night some days prior to Charlie's abduction, the night when Charlie had also had a nightmare. He'd thought to be somehow responsible for Charlie's deplorable mental state then, and he still wasn't sure whether there wasn't something to his conjecture.

"I won't hurt you, Charlie, you hear me? It was just a dream. Everything's okay now."

 _Is it?_ the thought shot through his brain. Given that everything was okay, then why was his voice almost as tremulous as that of his troubled brother?

He could still hear Charlie's quick breathing, but it seemed as though he was coming back to the here and now. He quickly rose to switch the light on, seeing his assumption confirmed as he turned around to face his brother again who was still pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes, obviously still trying to calm himself down.

Don was back to squatting down next to him in an instant. "How are you?" he asked in a low voice.

Charlie nodded and gave him the shortest of all glances before averting his eyes again. It looked as though he wanted to say something, like "okay" or "fine", but he couldn't get the word past the lump in his throat.

Don was squatting there, tense, thinking hard. His instincts told him to just put his arms around his brother and wait until morning, until everything was better, but rationality asked what good that would do. His brother had gone through a traumatic experience – scratch that, through a series of traumatic experiences, and this nightmare was final proof that those events were still haunting him.

He tried gauging his brother. Did Charlie want to talk about what had happened and just didn't know how to start? And did the answer to that question even matter? Wasn't the much more interesting question whether talking would _help_ his brother? After all, Charlie hadn't been too thrilled about going to Bradford either, but neither of them could deny the fact that it had been a good decision for him.

"What was your dream about?"

Don was a bit startled himself, he hadn't consciously asked the question, the words had just tumbled out of his mouth. Suddenly scared, he looked at Charlie more closely, trying to determine whether his question had upset him further. It didn't seem like it. Still, he didn't like what he saw. Charlie was still pale, still breathing laboriously and still trembling all over.

"I'm going to make you a cup of tea," he decided. "I'll be back in a minute. Just call me if you need me."

Don didn't think that he'd ever made a cup of tea that fast as he did now, especially since he wasn't doing that too often to begin with. When he came back, two steaming cups in his hand, Charlie had sat himself upright, his leg resting on the stool in front of the couch. He was still pale and still avoiding eye-contact, only looking up briefly when Don entered the living-room.

"Thanks," he mumbled when he accepted the tea. His fingers instantly encircled the cup and he closed his eyes, apparently drawing strength from the warmth the touch made spread in his body.

For a moment, Don just stood there, watching him, unsure what to do now. In the end, he jumped in at the deep end. "May I?" he asked, something he would have never considered before all this, and gave the free space on the couch on Charlie's left a nod. When Charlie looked first at the empty spot, then back at his brother with an indiscernible look in his eyes, Don was on the verge of pulling back. Before he could do that, however, Charlie nodded.

They sat in silence for some minutes, warming up their hands with the hot cups and waiting for the tea to be ready for drinking.

"I was dreaming of the park," Charlie suddenly said and Don's head jerked in his direction. His brother's voice had been quiet and calm, but the effect it made on Don was a little unsettling. It almost seemed as though Charlie was talking to himself rather than to him. Therefore, he wasn't sure whether he should encourage him to go on or just stay quiet. He didn't have to make a decision though, for Charlie continued on his own account.

"I was running from them. You know, from the CIA terrorists. I just ran, without ever stopping, through scrubs and undergrowth… But every time I turned around, they were still there. I knew it was just a matter of seconds until they would get to me, but it always stayed at that point, they never came closer, but never disappeared either, so I just had to go on running and running and I couldn't do anything but run and think that any second now, they would get me. And then, suddenly, there's this bear in front of me. A real bear, a grizzly bear, a giant beast. He's rearing up, directly in front of me, and I know that this is it now, there's no way out because I've got the bear ahead and the terrorists behind me. I'm running sideways, but I know I can't get away from them. Still I'm running, without believing that I'll make it, but when I turn around, I realize that I'm safe. A miracle, at bottom. The terrorists aren't coming after me, and neither is the bear, they both stopped and now they're standing there facing each other. And then..." He stopped, his voice was gone. He swallowed, but even so his voice was much thinner than before when he went on, "Then the bear turns into… into you. You're surrounded by the terrorists and they start attacking you, they start hitting you and… You're fighting them, but suddenly you're on the ground, but they still don't stop even though you're bleeding and you aren't moving anymore and they kick you and beat you with their clubs and I know that you're… I know that it's too late. They killed you. They killed you right in front of me and I… I didn't..."

He trailed off and Don forced himself to start breathing again. He forced himself to remind himself that as terrifying as Charlie's story was, it had just been a dream, and it was about time to make Charlie realize that as well.

He put an arm around his brother's thin shoulders, encouraged by the fact that Charlie tolerated the contact. "It was just a dream, buddy," he said softly, almost whispering. "You're safe now, nobody's going to hurt you ever again."

He was filled with an uneasy feeling when he heard his brother's soft chuckle. It sounded wrong somehow, it wasn't a laugh caused by relief, but a bitter laugh, like the laugh of a disillusioned old man who'd seen far too much hardship in his lifetime. He didn't say anything, but still it was obvious that Don's words hadn't convinced him one bit.

"What is it?"

As an answer, Charlie shook his head. When Don remained silent, though, he deigned to express his thoughts with words after all. "You know that's not true. Rosenthal, Patter and Mike are still out there and I'm probably the only one who can testify against them. At least I'm the only witness you know of now that they've killed Anna Silversteen."

Don's head jerked in his direction and he stared at him wide-eyed. "How do you know about her?"

Charlie just shrugged as though that wasn't very important. "Larry told me when I asked him how you found me."

Don gave a little irritated sigh. That much for trying not to let Charlie know about how much danger he was still in. All he could do now was trying to calm him down. "Listen, buddy, nothing's going to happen to you, okay?" He hesitated, but it seemed senseless to keep it a secret now. "I'm here for your protection. Officially. And you can be damned sure that I won't let anything happen to you, I promise you that."

Charlie gave him a deep sigh back and leaned his head back on the couch, but he was still emanating too much tension for Don to believe he'd calmed him down. The hands he ran over his face weren't indicative of that either and neither were his words, "Don't you have something better to do?"

Don stared at him. Had his brother suffered some kind of serious head trauma sometime during the past couple of days?

"You're kidding, right?"

He was rewarded with some silence once more and was starting to think that Charlie would just let the subject trickle away in the quiet atmosphere when his brother gave him a verbalized reaction after all, his voice still quiet, yet his words clearly accentuated. "You still don't get it, do you?"

Because of the clear accentuation, Don had had no trouble understanding those words per se. He did, however, have immense trouble understanding their meaning. "What don't I get?"

Again, Charlie ran his hands over his face, and again it took him a while to make himself talk. "The nightmare," he said eventually. "Everything. That you… that you don't always have to be there for me."

"Charlie..." Don started, but was too dismayed to finish the sentence. Was that really what his brother thought about their relationship? That it was somehow a burden to Don?

He was about to make it clear to him that this was nowhere near the truth when Charlie went on, "No, listen. I don't want..." He took a deep breath and tried again. "I don't want you to endanger yourself because of me. Not as my security guard or anything and not in any other way. I don't want any security guard. And you should just get some rest, you're completely exhausted."

Don opened his mouth to protest, but now that he'd gotten into the flow of talking, Charlie wouldn't let him. "Come on, Don, everybody can see how beat you are! When was the last time that you had a good night's sleep? You really should take better care of yourself instead of always watching out for me."

Don had closed his mouth again. He was silent. He was… well, not really angry, but maybe… ill-humored? In any case he didn't like his little brother telling him what to do and how to lead his life. At the same time, he tried to bear in mind – and honestly, how could he ever forget? – how much Charlie had gone through lately. He just had to be patient with him. Alright then. Take a deep breath. Calm down.

"It was just a dream," Don repeated with a voice that was so calm it almost sounded cold. "The CIA terrorists didn't really attack me. That never happened, so there's no reason to get so upset about that."

Charlie shook his head as though he was trying to deny that it had been a dream. Yet, he didn't contradict Don. Apparently he didn't feel that he had enough strength left for a fight.

Don felt helpless. How should he ever make the mistake in his reasoning clear to Charlie when his brother wouldn't explain to him how he'd come to that point? He ran his hands over his face and decided to give the conversation a lighter tone. Maybe that would make Charlie start talking.

He put a smile on his lips and just grabbed the first piece of information that came to mind and asked, "I mean, come on, me turning into a bear?"

Charlie looked up at him, which was technically what Don had been aiming for. He hadn't been aiming at such a piercing look though, one which seemed to be designed to X-ray him.

"What?" he asked his little brother, trying not to let it show how insecure his look made him feel.

When Charlie averted his eyes however, Don had to realize he would have preferred even a look like that. "Nothing," his brother said quietly.

 _And I'm the Queen of England_ , Don thought. By now, however, he was running out of ideas what to do and growing more and more desperate. Dealing with Charlie had become an incredibly difficult endeavor because he was always afraid of inflicting pain on him somehow. True, it was usually easy to read Charlie's facial expressions and to know what was going on inside his head, but right now, Don thought that a master's degree in psychology would have been quite helpful.

Until he'd have that though, he'd have to rely on his brotherly instincts. "Come on Charlie, talk to me. What's the matter? Did I say something wrong?" _And if so, what? And how am I supposed to know when you're closing up like an oyster?_

All he got was silence and that was more than his tight nerves could take. "Damn it, Charlie, you've got to talk to me! How else am I supposed to help you?"

"I never said you were supposed to help me!"

Don stared at him. "Charlie –" he started, but his brother interrupted him.

"I didn't mean that," he said, quieter now, though his voice was still trembling with suppressed emotion. His breathing too was still a little quickened, but he seemed to regret his small outburst already. He was silent for some seconds, but Don thought there was more to come. He was right. "It's just… you should just… There's nothing you can do to help me."

Don shook his head, incredulous. "What are you talking about? All you –"

"Just leave me alone, will you?" His agitation was back. "There's nothing you can do for me, because you don't understand, because you weren't there, so just… Just leave me alone, okay?"

Don was still shaking his head, with more vehemence now. "No, Charlie, that's not okay. I need to know what's getting you worked up like this. Now."

This time, it was his brother's turn to shake his head. "I don't –"

"Now, Charlie."

He could see the muscles around Charlie's jaw tense up. He was obviously warring with himself, he just needed a nudge in the right direction. "Come on. Talk to me."

"Alright!" Don flinched. He hadn't expected another outburst like that. "Just FYI, it wasn't just a dream, it was real, I mean somehow! It didn't all happen exactly like that, but it was all there, my mind just put the pieces together in another way!"

Don frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Everything, of course! The park, the bear, you! I mean, I knew those terrorists were after me, and I knew that you were somewhere around there, too, and I'd seen how they killed you!"

Don's frown became deeper. His brother wasn't making any sense, and given his latest mental health issues, that wasn't a good sign. "Just calm down, buddy," he said in a low voice, a voice that was strained by the effort it took him to remain calm on the outside. "We'll sort this all out. Just try not to get too upset, alright?"

Charlie huffed and stared into his tea, refusing to answer or to acknowledge Don's presence in any other way. Don was thinking about running upstairs and get their dad, hoping that together they might be able to get Charlie back on track, but he was too afraid to let him out of his sight now. Seeing how confused Charlie currently was…

"We'll sort this all out," Don repeated, partly to convince himself of his words. "You just need to tell me what happened."

Charlie was silent.

Don was lost. "What about the bear?" he asked, thinking it would be easier to start at one point and then cover the rest step by step.

His brother shrugged and for a moment, Don was afraid he would keep his silence, but eventually he spoke up, albeit with a voice that was hard and emotionless. "It's a national park. You've got to expect to run into a bear every now and then."

Don frowned. "What do you mean?"

Charlie sighed, sounding rather irritated. "I mean I met a bear. I saw him, he saw me, and he decided to go his own way, end of story."

Don hesitated. Alright, technically it was possible for an encounter like that to occur, but given Charlie's current mental state and given his earlier words, that thing about the terrorists killing him…

"Why is it so hard for you to believe me?"

Don's head jerked around and he was confronted with his brother's accusing stare. "What?" He felt caught, worse, he felt trapped. "What makes you think I don't believe you?" he tried wriggling out and then decided to start the counter-attack. "But you've got to admit that most of what you just told me didn't happen. I didn't turn into a bear, and the terrorists certainly didn't kill me."

Suddenly, the look in Charlie's eyes changed. His jaw was still clenched, and while the expression on his face still indicated anger, it was dominated by something more troubled now, and much more sadder.

"They did."

His voice was so low that Don tried telling himself he'd just misunderstood, but he didn't manage to convince himself. Before he had figured out how to react to that though, his brother went on talking.

"There must be a body somewhere," he said, his voice still so low that Don had to strain his ears to hear him. "I don't know who it is, but I guess his family must have declared him missing, so maybe you can find him through that. And through his appearance, of course. And through the timeline. He must have gone missing sometime last October or maybe November, I can't really be sure."

Don swallowed. His heart was beating painfully. His brother still wasn't making any sense. "What missing person, buddy?" He paused, then said it anyway. "There's no missing person in this case except for the suspects."

"There must have been!" Charlie groaned. He was pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes, and the picture of desperation he presented did nothing to calm Don down. "They used him to wear me down, they… they made me believe he was you."

Don still had no idea what his brother was talking about, but he slowly started nourishing the hope that maybe, there was at least some sense among all the weird things he was saying. "So you somehow saw me while they had you?" he asked, trying to keep his tone soothing, to keep the tremble out.

Charlie looked up at him then, his eyes searching for something in Don's face. "I'm not crazy, Don," he then said. "I know what's real and what isn't, and I didn't just imagine that. I know that now, so don't tell me I'm imagining things!"

He sounded upset and Don felt panic rise within himself. He should probably wake their dad, he shouldn't try dealing with this on his own.

"If you don't believe me, ask Bradford. He should know."

Don frowned. If Charlie was bringing Bradford into the mix, that made it more likely that he had still a grasp on reality. That didn't make things easier though. "I still don't understand."

Charlie sighed and went back to staring into his tea. "It was last fall," he finally started. "After I told them I wouldn't work for them any longer, because I had found out what they were doing. They tried convincing me to keep on working for them, they made up lies and lies, but I'd seen the evidence, so I remained firm. They started threatening me then, and when that didn't work..." His voice was gone and he had to clear his throat before he could go on. "When that didn't work, they..." He stopped again, ran his hands over his face and started anew. "They brought me outside the cell one day, downstairs, in some kind of basement. It was one great room, large, and dark. They told me they had a present for me, and then I saw… There was somebody lying on the floor, a few yards away, and that someone was… you. You were lying with your back towards me, your face turned sideways, looking away from me. You were wearing your FBI jacket, and in it, there was a red stain, so I knew they'd shot you. Then they made me watch when they started kicking you and then they… they shot you in the head." He swallowed. "Three times."

Don was staring at him, stunned to silence. When he realized that his brother had stopped talking, he forced himself to speak again, to make this nightmare go away for him. For both of them. "Buddy – whoever you saw there, it wasn't me. I'm still alive, they didn't kill me."

"I know that," Charlie replied quietly. "But only after Bradford made me realize it. He explained to me how they'd tricked me into believing that it was you. But the fact is, Don, I… I believed it. I believed that they had killed you, worse, that they had killed you because of me."

There was nothing Don could find to say to that. He'd known for some time now that whatever those people had done to his brother had been bad, really bad, but until now, he'd kept himself from imagining the gruesome details with more or less success. This time of blissful ignorance was over now and he was confronted with the experience of seeing his brother in a whole new light, in a light he would have never dreamt to see him in: he was seeing him as the victim of a crime. To make matters worse, they weren't talking about petty theft, but about something much more substantial. What those terrorists had done to his brother was nothing short of psychological torture, and they seemed to be knowing their way around the craft.

He felt anger rise inside him when he thought of what they had done to him, a kind of anger that made it difficult for him to breathe, and when the restricting feeling wouldn't go away after some deep breaths, he had to admit to himself that his anger wasn't solely directed at those terrorists. The bitter part of it, the part that he couldn't make go away even if he decided to run amok and smash his surroundings to pieces was directed at himself. All the things his brother had just told him about had happened after he had been declared dead, during a time when Don had allowed himself to wallow in self-pity. If instead, he'd decided to ask the right questions and to get to the bottom of this matter sooner, he might have prevented all of Charlie's later suffering.

"I'm so sorry, Charlie."

His voice had been low, afraid to say those words, afraid of his brother's reply, his rejection. He knew that his brother was usually very forgiving, but he was also aware that this wasn't just a simple case of forgetting to pick him up from the airport. He had let him down big-time, and because of that, his brother had experienced an amount of traumatic experiences that might very well change his life forever – hell, they would have almost cost him his life. Still, Don was hoping fervently that Charlie would be willing to forgive him, for he had no idea what he was going to do otherwise.

"Don't do that. Just don't say it, please."

"But..." Don was a little lost. He felt like he hadn't made his point clear, like his brother hadn't really understood how sorry he was about what he'd done, and he needed to explain that to him.

"Just drop it," Charlie interrupted him before he could try again. "I know that you think you're somehow responsible for me, but you're not, so stop blaming yourself."

Now, Don was definitely lost. While Charlie's words seemed to be trying to comfort him, his tone definitely wasn't suited for that, it was hard and not really placative.

He decided to take the bull by the horns. "Even so, you must still be angry with me."

The answer he got was a soft chuckle that didn't contain any joy. "Trust me, Don, you're not the one who made a mistake."

Don frowned. "What do you mean?"

Charlie let out a small sigh and took his time before answering. "You still have no idea how I ended up at the foot of that hill with my leg broken, do you?" he asked eventually.

Don hesitated. Did Charlie not remember telling him about his escape from the terrorists' dugout? On the other hand, he'd referred to his flight through the park just a couple of minutes ago, so it seemed as though the mere chain of events wasn't what he was getting at, so Don answered, "No."

"I wanted to go home," Charlie said quietly, though his voice was still trembling with emotion. "As quickly as possible. I could hardly think of anything else but home, and I also needed to know what they'd done to Larry. They'd shown me a picture of his car, but I still didn't know what to think of that because they'd tricked me so often already. So I just went on walking as fast as I could, and I kept walking even through that storm one night. You don't have to explain to me how stupid that was, I know that, I just… I really wanted to come home. Anyway, what was bound to happen actually happened and I slipped on a wet rock, tumbled down the hill and broke my leg in the process."

Don shuddered. He'd known for several days now that Charlie had been somewhere in that park alone, in any wind and weather, day and night. Now, however, when he heard his brother speak of his experience and confirm the nightmare scenarios Don had imagined, the pictures in his mind became more vivid, especially Charlie's face, filled with lines of desperation and fear, and it all made it seem so much more terrifying, like a horror movie, rated M.

"I don't know how long I'd been lying there, at any rate more than a day. At some point I stopped feeling the pain, or anything else. It was a little like going numb, or like that broken figure on the ground wasn't really me but someone else. And I watched that figure and watched him growing weaker by the hour and I knew it was completely unrealistic that I should ever make it out of there. I had no food, no water, and then there was also the fever. I was really… not well. Plus, I knew that it had been a really long time since I had built one of those πs, so I knew it was extremely unlikely that you would find me in time. And that was… that was when I gave up."

From the tone in his voice, Don could tell that his brother had finished his narrative, so he knew it was his turn to react. He had no idea what to say though because he had the distinct feeling that Charlie had been trying to make a certain point with his last statement, and try as he might, Don couldn't see what point that was. He also wasn't sure whether he understood what his brother had meant by 'giving up'. Maybe that was where he should start to clear this matter up.

"What do you mean, you 'gave up'?"

To Don's utter dismay, tears welled up in his brother's eyes at that. Damn it, he was bad at this, he should wake up their dad, he'd know how to do this without hurting Charlie further.

"I mean," Charlie said, making an effort to keep the tears out of his voice, "that I stopped fighting. I gave up, Don."

Don pressed his lips together. He still didn't understand, but he also knew he couldn't ask again because it would just upset Charlie further. Just as he'd made that resolve, his brother looked up at him, searching his eyes, a crooked smile appearing on his lips. "You still don't understand," he observed, and before Don had decided what to say to that, he went on explaining, "I stopped caring, Don. Until a certain point, I clung to life with all the strength I had left, but then… I just let myself float. Before, I'd been fighting to stay awake so I could scare away wild animals if they came close to me, or call out for help if someone came close enough to hear me, or to see if I couldn't figure out a way to improve my situation after all. I'd been trying everything that was still in my power to stay alive, but then I… I just didn't care anymore. I was tired of fighting, and I just wanted it all to stop. One way or another."

Don shuddered. He was beginning to understand now, and he didn't like it one bit. He'd thought that now that they'd found Charlie, everything was slowly going to come back to normal. Sure, he'd known they would have to face some problems, primarily the abduction, the captivity and whatever the CIA terrorists might have done to Charlie during that. What he hadn't known until today however was that his brother had accepted death.

He was suddenly feeling dizzy, thinking he was losing the ground beneath his feet, even though he was already sitting. The meaning of his brother's words was dawning on him now, understanding coming in hefty waves that were taking his breath away. His brother had accepted death. When help hadn't come, he had decided that life wasn't worth fighting for anymore. He had made a decision to accept death there and then, alone out in the wilderness, without seeing any of them ever again.

The thought made him sick. Don had already been in a number of precarious situations himself, he too had had his moments when he'd thought that his life would be over soon, that this was it, that there would be no tomorrow waiting for him. He had always kept fighting though, he had never accepted that it was his time to go now. His brother had.

He shuddered again, the memory of the time when he'd thought he'd lost his brother inundating him, the feeling of grief and helplessness and desperation increasing the sensation of sickness. He felt his heart-rate quicken and he knew he had to do something to fend off the panic. _He's alive_ , he reminded himself. _He's not dead and he's back home, so_ _we can sort it all out now. E_ _verything's going to be fine_ _eventually_ _._

Seeing the anguish on Charlie's face, his heart skipped a beat. _Is it?_ he asked himself, and when it occurred to him what Charlie's words might _really_ mean, he felt a cold hand grip his heart.

"That's over now, isn't it?" he asked and suddenly felt small and vulnerable. Charlie was looking at him now, a confused frown on his forehead, and Don felt obliged to explain. "I mean, it's one thing to think like that when you're out alone in the wilderness, hurt and sick, but you don't… I mean, you don't still feel this way, do you?"

The confusion still hadn't left Charlie's face. "Feel what way?"

Don, feeling so tense he thought he might snap, fought the urge to shake him. Was his brother being dull on purpose? "I mean you don't…" He took a deep breath and then let the words tumble out, "Do you still want for things to end, one way or another?"

Charlie's eyes went wide. "What makes you – no, I…" He was shaking his head, but his confusion was turning into irritation. "Did you understand anything of what I just said? I'm not suicidal, Don, I just… I gave up. Why can't you understand what that means?"

Now that his heart was beating more regularly again, albeit still too fast, he also regained his ability to form complete sentences. "Calm down, buddy," he said, putting his hands on his brother's shoulders, "I get it. I'm just saying, it's nice to know that you're not thinking about… doing that."

"But that's not the problem!"

"I know, buddy. I know." His hands, after he'd found that Charlie was tolerating them, were tightening their grip as he looked into his brother's eyes, seeing the despair in their depths and wishing he could do anything to make that disappear. But what could he do? As Charlie had pointed out, he wasn't facing any sinister thoughts right now. The problem he was facing was about something that was past, something that Don couldn't change anymore, so how was he supposed to help Charlie?

He shook his head. "I think you should cut yourself some slack there. After all, what significance does it have now what you thought back then? You survived, for one thing." He could see that Charlie was about to shake his head, probably wanting to tell him that he still didn't understand, and he tightened his grip even further. "I get it, Charlie, but you have to realize that what you were facing was a borderline experience, one that most people never face."

His brother swallowed and Don could see that the despair in his eyes had been replaced by fear. "But what does that say about me? If that's how I chose when faced with a borderline experience?"

Don leaned in closer to his brother so that their noses were almost touching. "It means you're human. You're being too hard on yourself, buddy. You held out for a really long time without losing your spirits, didn't you?"

He waited until he saw Charlie's tentative nod before he went on. "You should keep in mind that you weren't just faced with a difficult situation and decided to give up. You _did_ fight. But I guess at some point, there's just no strength left to keep holding on. For anybody." He could see that Charlie still wasn't convinced, so he added, "There's absolutely nothing you need to be ashamed of."

Charlie shook his head again. "But you were trying so hard to find me, all of you. Dad told me how you would keep working non-stop regardless of your own needs, and I knew that, I was counting on you trying to find me and then I just gave up! I mean, it doesn't make any sense!"

Don gave him the slightest of all smiles. "Are you listening to me? That's why they call us human."

"But you all worked so hard and I almost –"

"We got you back, buddy, that's what matters, and you lived long enough for us to find you. You must have done something right."

He could still see despair and fear in those expressive eyes, but now, hope had entered the mix as well, and Don finally put his arms around him fully, pulling him close and breathing a sigh of relief. He knew that Charlie's demons were still lurking in the background, but at least now they knew their enemy and could fight him. He was well aware that Charlie, that they _all_ would have to do a lot of work to deal with all this, but he'd been right earlier: all that mattered now was that Charlie was back.

Everything was going to turn out all right.


	57. Mexico

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1 **  
** **A/N:** Thanks a lot for your reviews! I feel very honored.

* * *

57\. Mexico

When Alan went downstairs, the first thing he searched with his eyes was the grandfather clock near the door. Since the door to Don's room had been open, he hadn't missed the fact that his eldest hadn't been lying in his bed, and yet it was just past six o'clock in the morning. True, given what Alan had learned not even 24 hours ago, he wouldn't be surprised if Don was already on his way to work, but given their talk about him needing rest, Alan had to admit he would be disappointed in Don if he overexerted himself like that.

However, his eyes had hardly captured the time when they landed on the couch and presented him with a sight that made him stop abruptly. To tell the truth, he wasn't sure whether what he was seeing was real, but real or not, it made a smile appear on his face.

It was his sons. They were sitting on the couch sleeping, leaning against each other. Don's head was resting on Charlie's, which in turn was lying on Don's shoulder. It was such a peaceful image.

Alan automatically started breathing more easily. Everything was good. His sons were home and for the most part well. At any rate they were far away from the recently averted danger, a danger that in this moment seemed so distant to him that he was inclined to make himself believe it had all been a mere figment of his imagination.

With the smile still on his face, he went into the kitchen to make them all some breakfast. The coffee was just ready when Don joined him.

"Good morning," he said, still smiling. "Did you sleep well?"

Don gave him a brief glance. "Like a rock," he said, and even though his reply was terse and serious, he seemed a lot calmer and more content than during the last couple of days.

"You're going to the office today?" Alan asked, still nourishing some hope despite everything.

Still, he had to take a double look when he saw Don shake his head and glance towards the living room at the same time. "No, I'm gonna stay here today." The look of surprise on Alan's face was piercing enough to elicit a more detailed explanation from him. "I'm here to protect Charlie. Officially."

Alan frowned. Don staying at home instead of going out and finding the men that had hurt his brother was so much out of the ordinary that there had to be some reason for it, and both reasons that Alan could think of were more than just a little worrisome: either Don actually chose to stay home to get some rest, and if that was the case, he had to feel really exhausted, or he stayed at home because he actually believed he was the only one to keep his brother safe, which would mean that Charlie was still in severe danger.

Alan swallowed before he dared asking, "But he's safe here, isn't he?"

"Last time they took him at CalSci where we also thought he'd be safe. We can't be too careful."

Alan was silent, but allowed himself to calm down a little. He was relatively sure that Don's precautions were exaggerated measures. He knew his son, he knew that he had an acute protective instinct, especially with respect to his younger brother. He knew that Don would never recklessly expose Charlie to any form of danger, no matter if that danger was real or imagined. No, as far as Alan could tell, those precautions were more a measure for Don's sake than for Charlie's.

The only problem was that Alan _couldn't_ tell. If he was honest with himself, he had to admit that as their father – and thus as an outsider with respect to the case – he didn't have access to all the relevant information, but was only told what was inevitable for him to know.

So what if Don was right in his concern after all?

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The same morning, Clifford Wellman, Wayne Taccone and Dexter Johnson arrived safely at the federal prison. According to the guards' report, the transport had occurred quietly and uneventfully with no attempts to escape or other disturbances. Their three accomplices seemed to have retreated.

Over the course of the day, that suspicion became confirmed. The nationwide search had finally attained a result that, in contrast to all the other tips so far, actually allowed them to make some progress, that result being none less than a picture taken by a radar trap.

It had been taken by a permanently installed speed camera on a country road near Uvalde, a small town in Texas, only about 60 miles from the Mexican border. As soon as they had been notified, which had been only about an hour after the picture had been taken, they had arranged for increased surveillance in the area, especially at the border. Every police officer and every customs officer in the county knew the mugshots of their three suspects, and they had also informed their Mexican colleagues even though they were hoping to be able to arrest the suspects before they crossed the border, unwilling to take any chances that this case might fall flat due to a bureaucracy war concerning their extradition.

At any rate, that picture presented the kind of breakthrough that they hadn't dared hoping for. They finally had a lead, they had documented information about the whereabouts of Rosenthal, Kirtland and Patter, and if everything went according to plan, their colleagues would arrest them within the next couple of hours.

"I still don't understand why they would be traveling on country roads," Megan said. "Why didn't they just take the freeway?"

Colby shrugged. "Maybe they were afraid of increased surveillance on the freeways, especially on rest stops. And rightly so. Maybe they just thought we'd assume they'd take the freeway and chose to take another way."

Megan tilted her head thoughtfully. That sounded plausible enough.

"The thing that I don't get is how they could have been so stupid to get caught in a radar trap. I mean, if you're on the run, you'll do everything not to get that documented, right?"

"But if you're on the run, it's not that easy to always keep a clear head," David pointed out. "I guess they were just trying to leave the country as quickly as possible."

Colby nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, probably. Let's just hope they didn't make it that far."

"I can't imagine that they did," Megan said. "They had just about an hour to reach the border before we informed the border patrols, and they still had more than 60 miles to go."

"It's possible," Colby demurred.

"But unlikely. They couldn't have gone at the speed limit for the entire way, you also have to factor in traffic."

"Well, we should soon know, right?" David ended his colleagues' discussion. "At least if we assume that they were actually headed towards the border, for then we should soon know whether they fell into our trap or not."

"And what are we going to do until we know that?" Colby asked. He was having ants in his pants, they were finally so close to making some progress, but still there was nothing to do for them.

"We should stay put and gather all the information that comes in," Megan said.

Colby's reply was dripping with sarcasm. "Great. I love how we're always right in the middle of things in this case."

"If you wanna do something, call Don," David said, "for I'd say this should count as a breakthrough."

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Don nervously glanced at his brother on the couch. His father had just gone to shop for groceries and Charlie was sleeping soundly, so the coast was clear.

As he waited for the call to connect, the receiver in his hand, he stepped towards the windows, looking outside. On the street, everything seemed to be going its usual course: every now and then a car would pass, a neighbor would go by the house, a dog would bark. However, as long as Charlie's attackers were still out there, this familiar calm wouldn't be an idyll for Don, but only a source of potential danger.

Somebody picked up.

"Yes?"

"Hello, Dr. Bradford, it's Don Eppes. I'm calling because… it's a bit difficult to explain."

"Is it about your brother?"

Don rolled his eyes. Guessing other people's thoughts was one of the more irritating qualities of psychologically trained people like Bradford. "Yes," he admitted. "He's… I'm not sure what to think of him. I mean, I get that he's exhausted and the doctors told us he would need rest, but he's been more or less sleeping through ever since we got back. Besides, he's having nightmares about what happened, and the things he told me last night… I really think it would be good for him to talk to a psychiatrist."

Bradford paused briefly before answering. "You do realize though that this is a decision that only your brother can make?"

Don grimaced. He knew very well how difficult – difficult? Impossible! – it would be to convince Charlie once again of the necessity of psychological consult. It wasn't like he couldn't empathize with his brother's unwillingness to confide his innermost thoughts and feelings to a stranger, but the way he was acting just wasn't normal.

"I'm aware of that," Don said in an attempt to keep this conversation from turning into one about control and trust issues, for in that case it would become a conversation about himself. "I'm just worried about his health. I mean, this kind of excessive sleep can't be good for him, it almost seems as though he's using sleep in order to hide from his problems instead of facing them."

Bradford sighed. "Alright. Let me make one thing clear: I can't give you a remote diagnosis. I can, however, tell you that there might be good reasons for your brother to sleep as much as he does. You have to understand, Don, that he has been under immense pressure for a really long period of time – what, six months? The effect of all those different forms of pressure was increased by the circumstance that in all this time, he didn't have an opportunity to come to rest because all this time he's never been home, so this is the first time in months that he can truly let his guard down."

Don was about to protest, but Bradford wouldn't let him. "And when I say 'home'," he continued, "I don't mean an address. You've seen him during the sessions, Don, and I'm sure you'll agree with me when I say he wasn't calm and relaxed then, and from what I've learned, I doubt that he behaved very differently at his own house."

Don had to agree with that, but he still wasn't convinced. "So you're saying I shouldn't worry about him?"

"I didn't say that. Again, I can't give you a remote diagnosis, but from what I know about this case, we've got an abduction – no, wait, two –, possibly some form of torture and certainly a healthy amount of PTSD, so let me go out on a limb here and say that yes, I guess your brother might indeed benefit from psychological consult. You probably, too."

Don clenched his teeth, but pretended not to have heard that last sentence. "Alright, I get it. I'm going to talk to him then." He paused a second, for now it was time to bring up the real reason for his call, and Don was reluctant to do that. He hated having to ask someone a favor, but when he thought of the look in Charlie's eyes last night, he forced himself to swallow his pride. "The thing is, it's currently not advisable for him to leave his house." He paused, hoping that Bradford might take the bait. In vain. "So if he's going to have a session with a psychotherapist, it would have to be here, at his house."

This time, the pause served its purpose. "Are you asking me if I'm willing to make a house call?" He sighed. "Let me be clear on this: your brother needs to recognize the necessity for psychological consult on his own, and you won't make either of you happy if you try extorting him into seeking help. You'll have to tread very carefully, Don. Keep in mind that for the most part of the last six months, Charlie was denied the possibility of making decisions of his own. This mustn't continue now, or you'll do more harm than good to him." He paused, then said more soberly, "If he wants to talk about what happened, give me a call and we'll see how we go about scheduling a session."

Don had hardly listened to the doctor's words, waiting only for the reply that was important to him, and when he heard that, he breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Doctor. I'll get back to you."

He ended the call and turned around, and what he saw almost made him stumble backwards, as if he'd walked into a wall. Charlie was sitting up, his dark eyes directed at him with a piercing look as though he had just caught him at a crime.

"Who have you been talking to?" he asked, mistrust evident in his voice.

Don tried thinking back and determine if an outsider could figure out whom he'd been talking to solely by his side of the conversation, but he wasn't sure enough to risk lying to his brother. "To Bradford," he admitted.

"You've been talking to him about me?"

Don could feel heat rising to his head, still thinking feverishly about what exactly he'd said, but the look on his face must have told Charlie enough. Don could see that he clenched his jaw, he seemed irritated and… yes, somehow disappointed. "Maybe nobody told you so far," he said angrily, "but it's _my_ business whether or not I decide to talk to a professional, so stay out of this and mind your own business."

From the quick insecure glance he gave him, Don could tell that his brother was already regretting the harshness of his last words, but he couldn't really be angry with him these days anyway. Instead, he let himself lower on the couch beside him. He felt tiredness inundating him, but he knew they needed to have this conversation.

"Look," he started, "I'm just worried about you. I think that's understandable, especially after all the things you told me last night."

Charlie's face adopted a scarlet red complexion. "Can't you just forget about last night?" he mumbled.

Don stared into his face for several seconds, but Charlie kept averting his eyes. "No, Charlie, I can't," he said eventually. "You've got some issues, and you should start facing them as soon as possible before they get out of control."

Now Charlie did look up, giving him a kind of smile he couldn't quite interpret, at least not until Charlie said, "You mean you want me to go out there right now to go find a therapist?"

Don was silent. Charlie knew very well that he did not want that, not as long as there were still three of his kidnappers running about out there. "That's why I called Bradford. He'd be willing to make a session with you here."

Charlie managed to let his irritation show in a single sigh, although the crossing of his arms helped Don as well to get his point.

Don was lost. Helping his brother was becoming an impossible mission, with said brother being the one who was rendering it impossible in the first place. To make matters worse, their case was going much too slow as well, and if they didn't make some progress soon, they might even have to put it on hold until one day – maybe! – new information would turn up. And if he was honest with himself, Charlie was their best lead right now, so even if he might trigger some bad memories by doing so, it seemed as though asking him for more information was in his brother's best interest.

"What about the kidnappers, you really have no idea what they might be planning?" he queried. "I mean, you've been with them for several weeks, even before things got out of hand, you must have noticed something."

Charlie closed his eyes, the expression on his face both tired and pained. "I told you, I don't know. I've been working, Don. Sometimes I ate and sometimes I slept, but other than that, I worked. I didn't really spend much quality time with them, you know."

"Still, you did figure out certain things about their group, right, for that was why you started going against them in the first place."

"But those were inconsistencies," Charlie argued. "I found that what they told me and the data I found about the attacks didn't fit together, but I never had any insight into the structure of their group or into the documentation of their plans, if there ever even was anything like that. And later, after… after I'd confronted them, I never got to see any hard data anyway. They never actively let me in on their plans, Don, they were just using me. And since after I'd learned what they were doing I refused working for them, there was no reason to bring me into the loop. All I learned from that point forward were inferences from watching them, and even that only because they were careless around me because they figured I wouldn't have an opportunity to tell somebody anyway."

Don was silent. It once more hit him that if things had gone according to his kidnappers' plans, Charlie would have never returned to them alive, and once again it occurred to him how differently things might have turned out if anything in the chain of events had happened just a little differently. If Homeless Harry hadn't taken possession of the phone, they wouldn't have found the connection to Wellman and the national park. If the terrorists hadn't let that knife lying around in their interrogation room, Charlie might have never broken free. And if Rosenthal had been a little less patient during those 'interrogations' of Charlie, he might have acted on impulse and beaten him to death.

Before his mind presented him with more unwelcome scenarios, his cell rang, and he pulled it out of his pocket, noticing that his hand was trembling just slightly. He still had difficulty coming up from the depths of his thoughts and back to reality though. "Yeah?"

"Hey, Don, we got a lead. Rosenthal and the other two seem to be on their way to Mexico."

Don frowned. "Mexico?" He didn't know why, but the news didn't fill him with the zest he would have expected. After all, they finally had a lead, he should already be out of the door and be heading to his office.

"They were caught by a radar trap," Colby continued. "Less than two hours ago, near Uvalde, Texas."

"On the freeway?"

"No, on a country road. That surprised us, too, but we figured they expected less check points there. In any case, we got a picture. They're traveling in a white van, we even got a license plate, and we could recognize Rosenthal and Patter without a doubt."

"What about Kirtland?"

"There's another person on the backseat that we haven't been able to identify so far, but the technicians are working on it."

Don nodded slowly. All that was sounding very promising. "Alright, you need to inform all officers over there that you can get your hands on, we need –"

"Relax, Don, we already did that. If Rosenthal and the others are still in the states, we'll get them, soon."

"Alright. Thanks, Colby. I'm going to inform Stevens and I'll probably be coming by the office later today. Call me if anything happens."

He disconnected the call, still trying to understand what Colby had just told him. They had a lead. If things went smoothly, they were about to make an arrest.

He still didn't feel the thrill he would have expected at the prospect, but maybe, he had just gotten so used to bad news that he'd unlearned dealing with good ones.

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When Alan returned from shopping groceries, the bags still in his hands, his eldest was just preparing to leave. "Where are you going?"

"Office," was the short reply. Don glanced at the couch and when he noticed that Charlie was back to sleeping again, he quietly offered a slightly more detailed explanation. "We've got a lead. It looks as though Charlie's remaining kidnappers are trying to cross the border to Mexico. Therefore the A.D. is revoking the protection on Charlie, which means that I'll have to go back to real work." He smiled at his last words, but couldn't fool his father.

"And you agree with him?" Alan asked, noticing the insecurity in Don's eyes.

Don hesitated. He wasn't in the habit of discussing the details of a case with people who had no business knowing them, but he was well aware that his father already knew most of what was relevant in this case, so Don's thoughts about the new lead wouldn't make much of a difference now.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I mean, Mexico, it's just… it's so cliché. And I can't really see Rosenthal doing that. I don't know, it feels wrong somehow."

"But your boss seems convinced, enough so to pull the protection on Charlie." It was a question, prompted by worry, and Alan knew that Don would understand it as such.

"That's because we have evidence," Don explained. "We _know_ that they're in Texas, the problem is that I can't see why they would go there. But if we're lucky, we can simply ask them in a couple of hours."

Alan was examining his son's appearance closely. He knew that his eldest could usually rely on his intuition, but he also knew that Don's intuition was sometimes in overdrive when things involved Charlie, especially after everything that had happened since last fall.

"You know, son," Alan said, trying to sound more at ease than he actually felt, "I think we should both be glad that despite your job, you still sometimes fail to think like a criminal."

Don smiled a bit ruefully. "Alright, I get it. I'm being pessimistic, right?"

Alan smiled. "Correct."

Don tried to widen his smile, but Alan could see that it still wasn't genuine. He waited, knowing there was something to come. He wasn't mistaken.

"Listen, Dad..." Don started hesitantly, giving his sleeping brother another glance and making a decision. "I don't want Charlie to leave the house while I'm gone. And it would be better if you stayed with him for the rest of the day. I mean, I know there's no reason for extra precaution –"

His dad put a hand on his arm. "I'll stay."

Now, Don's smile seemed a little more genuine. "Okay, good," he said, the relief evident in his voice. "I'll be gone then. Just call me if something's up."

Alan smiled a little sadly. "I will. And you try not to worry so much."

He watched his eldest leave, wondering if he'd managed to dispel his doubts. He didn't really think so.


	58. Action and Reaction

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1  
 **A/N:** Oh boy. Maybe I should make the two-week-cycle official, that'd be closer to the truth. So this time, I won't make any promises, but I'll just say the next chapter will be uploaded when it's done. This one is another long one though, so I hope you'll forgive my renewed tardiness. Anyway, thanks a lot for your uplifting reviews, they made me very happy!

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58\. Action and Reaction

"Any news?"

Colby slowly turned around, every movement asking an unusual amount of energy and attention of him, and shook his head when he saw Don coming nearer. This early in the morning, there weren't many people around, Colby had been one of the first in the office. He'd woken up early in the morning and had been full of zest for action. He'd been sure their case would finally be picking up pace now. When he'd arrived at the office, however, and had learned that there had been absolutely no new developments since yesterday, all his zest had shifted to tiredness and a lack of drive. There wasn't anything to be done – again.

"How's Charlie doing?" he asked.

Don shrugged. "Okay, I guess."

Colby watched him, his eyes narrowed. Something was wrong with him, and for once he didn't think it was about Charlie, at least not directly. "You're still having doubts about the Texas lead?"

Don sighed and slid the file across the desk that he'd been holding in his hand, Clifford Wellman's file. "It's not that I'm having doubts, it's just..." He didn't know how to describe the feeling in his guts and then decided that it would be wiser anyway not to disclose all of his innermost feelings to his coworker.

"Good, because we do have proof."

Don sighed. That was what was confounding him most about this thing. "I would see so much clearer if it had been witness reports or something, because then the fault could have been in the tips we got, but we're talking about a picture taken by _us_ , by official authorities, so they actually seem to be in Texas. I just can't see why they'd go there."

"Well, you have no other choice but to come to terms with the fact that Rosenthal isn't as clever as you thought he was."

"Or cleverer than I'm giving him credit and I just can't see through his scheme," Don now voiced what he was really afraid of. His mind however was telling him that even though Rosenthal might be planning something, they were sufficiently far away not to present any immediate danger and thus they weren't his problem right now.

"We're going to take Wellman, Taccone and Johnson to task once more today. Maybe they'll decide there's something they'd like to tell us when they hear the word 'Mexico', or maybe they'll finally be willing to tell us something about the group's structure and plans. The more we know about those things, the greater our chances to find the other three."

"Alright," Colby said. Even though he was well aware that they'd been interrogating their three suspects for several hours already, Don somehow managed to make his words sound as though there was finally something to do for them.

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Charlie was sitting on the couch, staring into nothing. It was one of those moments when he saw the events of the past couple of months pass before his eyes and the passing of real time would lose all its meaning to him. It was, however, also these times that he became fully aware that this time was over now, that he was home, that he was safe, at least safer than he'd been in a really long time, so safe that he could close his eyes without having to be afraid of being awakened roughly by one of those terrorists and hauled to another interrogation. Because it was over now. It was over, and he was home and safe.

Charlie ran his hands over his face. Why didn't it work? Why couldn't his thoughts yield to his logic? Why was it all still tormenting him so much? Whenever he closed his eyes, he was afflicted by a feeling of dread and uneasiness, one that told him to open his eyes again, to stop exposing himself to the dangers of his surroundings, which was making his sleep less than restful. Yet he _knew_ that there was no danger around him. Alright, three of his kidnappers were still on the loose, but they still couldn't get to him _here_ , in his own house, with watchful neighbors and his family around to protect him, he _knew_ that.

Why couldn't he feel it as well?

A shudder ran down his spine when he realized that there was something wrong with him. Logic dictated that he should just go on living his life, yet there was no denying that he was unable to do so. He just couldn't do it. He couldn't just shake off what had happened. Even though he knew that his adventures of the park were a thing of the past, they were still very much present in his mind. He knew that he had left that hell behind, but apparently its fire had entrenched itself deeply enough in every fiber of his body to consume him from within.

He knew he had to choke that fire somehow, he just didn't know how. Talk about it? He couldn't do that. It was… The thought alone produced an uneasy feeling in his entire body, and then, what would be the use of it? No, talking would just re-open his wounds, not heal them, and in the process he'd not only expose himself to that hell again, but also burden others with his problems. There was no upside. It was difficult enough for them to take care of him already, he didn't have to make matters worse.

And if he went to a psychotherapist instead, as Don had suggested? It didn't have to be Bradford, he could go to someone else. Even though Charlie had to admit to himself that it seemed so much easier to choose Bradford than try a complete stranger. Bradford at least he knew, and he couldn't help it, he trusted him. Still, the list of cons was too long to be ignored. After all, he wasn't crazy. And if he did go to a psychotherapist, he'd have to admit to himself (and to everyone else, for that matter) that there was something really wrong with him, even though there wasn't anything wrong, not anymore, because everything was fine now and going to get back to normal. Besides, Bradford or his colleagues would do nothing else then tear open old wounds, they would force him to talk about what had happened, to think back of his time in captivity, to go back to the park…

No, there had to be another way. There had to be a way to get this over with other than to re-visit the park, whether for real or merely in his mind. He just needed to occupy his mind with something else. It was time to _do something_ now, he couldn't just continue sitting around and delving into the depths of his mind, letting his memories consume him, that would only wear him down. He had to do something, something to keep his mind focused. If that something allowed him to promote the case, 'his case', all the better.

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Since the search for the truck with which their three suspects had been caught in the radar trap hadn't yielded any positive results, they had managed to hide from the many officers patrolling the area until now, or, which would be far worse, but also far more likely, they had managed to flee the country. They hadn't given up hope yet and were keeping up the manhunt. In the meanwhile, they were following every little lead that might help them to figure out where their suspects would go.

One of these leads was their former fellow agent, Clifford Wellman. Don was standing behind the two-way mirror, watching his two colleagues grilling their suspect, trying to control his breathing and his anger at this traitor.

"Where are your accomplices?" Colby asked, a stern expression on his face.

"Come on, you can stop this now! I don't know, I told you that, and no matter how many more interrogation techniques you'll try, that won't change."

Despite his resolute words, all that Wellman's tone showed was tiredness, and the effect was worsened by his appearance. He was pale and there were dark smudges under his eyes, and on his forehead, there was a thin layer of sweat. He looked ready to take a break, only that there was no way they would grant him that, not now, when he finally seemed to have reached his breaking point.

"You're not helping your case."

"I told you, I don't _know_. I'm cooperative, I already told you everything I know."

"Who hired you?"

"I already told you."

Colby slammed his hand on the table. "I'm not talking about the attacks, I'm talking about the abduction!"

Wellman was silent. Colby leaned in closer. "Who hired you to kidnap Doctor Eppes?"

Wellman looked him directly in the eye. His face didn't show any movement at all when he said, "There was no abduction. All we did was ask Doctor Eppes to assist us on our project."

"You pretended to arrest him."

"I don't know who told you that. We simply asked him to come with us and he consented."

Colby abruptly turned away from him and away from the table before his hand could decide to hit it once more. "And what about last fall? That's another case of deprivation of liberty."

Wellman glanced at David and seemed to have difficulty finding the right words to say. David's calm and immobile figure seemed to have its effect on him, even though he was familiar with their interrogation techniques. In theory. This, however, was real life, and it was evident that the past days in detention hadn't failed to have the desired effect on him.

"Last fall?" he said and it was obvious he was trying to stall for time until his mind would have started working again and provided him with an answer that wouldn't get him into even deeper trouble. "There was no case of deprivation of liberty," he said at last, stumbling a little over his words. He took a second, then quickly said, apparently remembering the answer he was supposed to give, "It was a job. The doctor did the job we hired him for and we sent him home. It's not our fault he never arrived there."

"Do you think we're stupid?" Colby's voice had become dangerously low.

"It's the truth!" Wellman shouted, and the hint of desperation in his voice only reinforced Colby's suspicion that it actually was far from the truth. "Just ask the CIA, they know everything about it, we sent them a report saying that the civilian had completed his job and left headquarters!"

"I thought the CIA had no connection to your crimes?"

"They gave the order for the anti terrorism project, but they didn't really interfere with our work. They just gave the job to Rosenthal and gave him free rein as to how to accomplish the task, so Rosenthal put together a team consisting of Dexter Johnson, Wayne Taccone and some external members."

"External meaning people who weren't with the CIA, like Kirtland and Patter?"

"Exactly."

"Were there others?"

Wellman shrugged. "You have to ask Rosenthal that. I mean, he had a vast net of informants, but the core group, that was the six of us." He looked up at Colby, a look of impatience and defiance on his face. "Are you satisfied now?"

"No. You still haven't told us what Rosenthal intends to do now."

"Because I don't know, damn it!"

"Why did you pay Anna Silversteen to spy on Doctor Eppes?" Colby abruptly changed the topic.

Wellman's confusion was evident. "Because… I mean..." He fell silent for a second and you could practically see the neurons firing in his brain trying to find an answer, but it was equally apparent that after a couple of hours of interrogation and a couple of nights in a holding cell, he had a hard time doing that. "We didn't… we just wanted to ask him to continue his work for us as soon as he was better."

Colby knew that he had him now. His surprise attack had thrown him. "You know that's not the whole truth."

Wellman was silent, staring at the table, and that was enough of an answer for Colby.

"You wanted to prevent him from being released from the clinic without your knowledge, for then you would have lost control over him, am I right? You wanted to keep him from going back home and telling everyone about what you did and about your plans. So you kept watching him with the intent to do away with him as soon as he remembered, because he knew too much."

Colby could tell from their suspect's face that he had hit the bull's eye, so he took another chance. "But you didn't know that Anna Silversteen had quit her job at the clinic and that consequently she couldn't warn you anymore. So when you heard that Doctor Eppes had returned home, you panicked. You couldn't know how much about your plans he'd told already, so you went into hiding. Then you started watching him again and learned that he hadn't told anyone yet, and you sniffed a chance. You abducted him and tried to convince him to work with you again. I guess that after he would have finished his job, you planned on killing him, am I right? Now what I don't get is why you would take the risk of keeping him alive in the first place. When Doctor Eppes figured out your real plans, why didn't you just kill him there and then, why the whole fuss with that clinic?"

"We never planned on killing him," Wellman said, apparently completely unaware that he was thereby confirming all of Colby's other assumptions. "There was no reason for that. He didn't remember, and even if he did, he wouldn't have had any proof for any illegal activity. It would have been a waste to kill him, for as long as the project wasn't through, he could still be of use, and after that, he couldn't have damaged our business with mere accusations. Anyway, it's questionable if he would have tried to go against us after the project was through, for even if he'd been still convinced we weren't justified in what we did, he was still just as culpable as the rest of us."

Colby raised his eye-brows at that and for a moment was actually speechless at Wellman's pretension that came over his lips as naturally as if he had been talking about the weather.

"Alright," David said and Wellman flinched at his sudden interference. "Let's just assume you're telling the truth. Then I still don't understand how you can actually claim that there hasn't been any deprivation of liberty last fall. If Doctor Eppes had been with you on his own account, then why would you have forged that letter claiming he was dead?"

Even from the other side of the mirror, Don could see how badly the question threw Wellman off. Apparently he was slowly becoming aware of how much information he'd just revealed. "I don't..." It took a moment to get him back on track and remember the reply the terrorist organization had made up for that question. "It was a mistake. An accident."

David gave him a lenient smile, but it seemed to fulfill its purpose and make shudders run down Wellman's spine. "You don't actually expect us to believe that, right? Do you know what I think? I think that you spread that lie about Doctor Eppes's death in order to prevent his brother and the whole FBI from looking for him. And for that very same reason, you also wrote the second letter in which you described the details of his death. You just wanted to keep us from investigating. Am I right?"

Wellman just stared at David, a hostile look in his eyes, but it was enough for Don, truth be told, it was more than he could take. So the letter actually had been just a diversionary tactic. That letter that had made his and his dad's world fall apart had been nothing more than a means to trick him and to keep him from looking for his brother.

The worst part was that it had worked. He'd let them trick him. He'd never questioned the authenticity of those letters. He'd never doubted the fact that his brother was really dead. He had never started having second thoughts or asking the right questions as he would have normally done, as he _should_ have done. Instead of fighting and using his brain, he'd buried himself in his grief while Charlie had been held captive by those men.

Don left the observation room. He needed to get away. He was making his exit, taking swift strides, not caring for the direction, just away, as far away as he could, and if there had been any way, as far away from himself as possible. The memories and the emotions were all there again, clouding his thinking and numbing his body. There was one sole sensation he felt at this moment, and that was self-loathing.

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Wellman was just being taken back to his cell when David and Colby started to quietly converse about what they'd just learned.

"You believe him?" David asked.

Colby huffed. "I don't think he was able to lie anymore, at least not in the end. But the part with the CIA's involvement… you don't actually believe they're as innocent as Wellman's trying to make them look like, do you?"

David shrugged. "It's possible."

Colby gave him a stern look. "But not very likely."

David shrugged again, making a gesture with his hand as if to say that they might benefit from agreeing to disagree in this case.

Colby, however, seemed to prefer the 'disagree'-solution. "I mean, if they actually didn't know about the terrorism and Charlie's imprisonment, why didn't they just tell Don about his involvement in their 'project' when he asked around all the law enforcement agencies last fall? If Wellman is telling the truth, they knew about Charlie's involvement, they had reports about that."

David thought for a moment "Okay, but if Wellman's saying the truth about these reports – and I mean that's something we should find out pretty easily if the CIA won't be willfully obstructive – then they also got a report stating that Charlie's work for them was done, so maybe they didn't consider it their problem anymore and decided there was no reason to talk about that project."

Colby still didn't look convinced, so David felt compelled to go on. "Look, what do you want? We know that there are CIA agents involved in this, I grant you that, but I don't think we'll be able to figure out how far up this matter goes, at least not until we can talk to Rosenthal. And frankly, my guess is that even if he got more specific orders from higher above, he might take the fall. Or would you want to have the CIA against you?"

"That's what I'm not getting! I mean, how could they think they'd get away with this if the CIA _didn't_ order them?"

David took a deep breath. He'd been thinking a lot about this and had actually found an answer, but was a little reluctant to say it out loud. It did sound logical enough, but it also sounded a lot like a scenario a conspiracy theorist might come up with. "I guess we might be looking at a case of the end justifying the means. I mean, no one on the outside knew about the group's actions. So if those few attacks enabled them to reach their goal and bring peace to a troubled region or whatever they were really trying to accomplish… I don't know, I'd just say it's possible for the people in the upper positions not to ask too many questions about their methods and just focus on the results."

"But if their methods are _terrorist attacks?_ You don't actually think they'd go that far to justify their means?"

David shrugged. "If Charlie hadn't discovered their secret, nobody would have known that the terrorist attacks had been committed by the CIA people. It would have looked like al Qaeda attacks, maybe even to their bosses at the CIA."

Colby was silent, not sure what to think about this. He didn't have time to decide though, for in that moment, David's cell rang.

David frowned when his eyes fell on the caller ID. _Eppes_. Not Don's cell, no, they were talking about the Eppes residence. But Don was here, wasn't he? Yet who else would call him from there? "David Sinclair?"

"Um," the caller started and David's frown deepened. "Hey, David. It's me. Charlie."

"Hey," David said, to stunned to think of a more elaborate reply. "Um," he too said, then his mind kicked back in, "it's great to hear from you, man, how're you doing?"

"Uh, good. Yeah, good. Um..." This was starting to get a conversation of stammers. "Listen, David, I meant to ask you a favor."

David raised his eyebrows and in his stomach, he could feel a soft tingling sensation awaken, the forebodings of alarm. His eyes were fixed on his partner's face as though he could read in his expression what this was about, but it was probably more efficient to ask Charlie. "Yeah, sure. What do you need?"

"It's just that… you're still working the case with the CIA terrorists, right?"

David took a moment to close his eyes. The alarm receded and the tingling sensation was replaced by a queasy one. Now he had a very firm suspicion as to what this was about. "Yeah," he said a bit resignedly. He was so not looking forward to this conversation.

"Okay, good, so maybe you could… Could you sent me the information you have about the case? Or some of it? I could help you."

David bit his lip, the triumph over being right stifled by the realization of being trapped in a dilemma that would necessarily rile one Eppes brother up against him. But maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to reason his way out of this. "Look, Charlie, don't you think it'd be better for you if you just took it easy for a while? You know, get some rest until you're back on your feet?"

He could hear a growling sigh and practically see the mathematician roll his eyes. "It's not like helping you would require me to go to my physical limits, I'm just going to sit at my laptop. I just need some data. You know, I could work out a network analysis for you. Or I might apply some game theory to try and figure out Rosenthal's next moves. Or anything else that might possibly help you."

"Charlie, I really don't think –"

"I can help you, David," Charlie said very clearly, with every word accentuated. "We all want to catch them rather sooner than later, don't we?"

David sighed. "You know that we do –"

"So then why shouldn't I try to help you to catch them sooner? It has worked so often in the past, why shouldn't it work now?"

David sighed again. "Alright. Let's assume for argument's sake that you're right. Then how come I guess I shouldn't tell Don about this?"

There was silence at the other end that stretched on for a couple of seconds, and despite himself, David felt pity for Charlie. He liked Don, and he respected him as his boss, but he was also well aware that despite his warm-heartedness, he sometimes displayed a kind of rigor that was downright frightening, and there was little doubt that he would not be pleased with Charlie's involvement in this case. On the other hand, David knew that Charlie was right. He'd been a believer in his skills from the first hour, and it wasn't like Don would be a more agreeable man to live with if they continued poking around in the dark. What David did know, however, was that he didn't have a good feeling about this form of sneakiness. Then again, he didn't really look forward to telling Don either.

"I only need some data, David, that's all I'm asking you," Charlie tried again. "If I don't find anything, we just won't mention this to anybody and Don will never know. And if I do find something, than it was worth it, right?"

David sighed, again. "Yeah, okay," he said eventually and at the same time thought that he'd better keep his distance from Don for the next couple of days. "I'll send you everything we have."

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When Don came home that night, he wasn't sure whether his family would still be up. From outside, the house looked dark – and after all, it was almost eleven. When he entered the house, however, he stopped. There was still light, a reading light in the living-room. That wouldn't have been a problem if the light had served his dad as a means to read a book or to give Charlie some orientation and calm in case he awakened from a nightmare. But no, the light served for Charlie to work.

At least it was looking a lot like work. His brother was sitting on the couch, the laptop on his… well, his lap, with his broken leg propped up on a stool, a large number of papers surrounding him. Now that he'd heard Don enter the room, he hastily pushed them together and closed the laptop.

"Hey, Don," he said and his nervousness was almost palpable. "You're home late."

Don wasn't fooled by his show of nonchalance even for a second. "What are you doing there?" he demanded to know, not reacting to his brother's attempt to deflect his attention.

"What? Nothing. Just keeping my mind busy. Relieving the boredom, you know."

"And what are you keeping your mind busy with?" Don asked with mistrust in his voice. He stepped closer to the couch while Charlie was trying to make the papers disappear, but since he couldn't melt them into thin air, Don managed to read the hand-written title of the paper lying on top, _Kirtland (biogr. data)_.

"You've got to be kidding me," Don said. His voice was low, yet brimming with suppressed emotion, and both brothers knew that this was just the calm before the storm.

"Look, Don, there's no reason to get upset –"

That was all it took to unload all the emotions that had accrued in Don, and they were unloaded in form of anger. "I can't believe your nerve!" he shouted, initiating his forceful monologue. "Did you ever stop to think about your actions? I mean, what the hell?! How did you even get access to that data?"

Charlie was silent.

"And what on earth made you think it'd be okay to just start your own investigation? You're supposed to get some _rest_ , dammit! I'm busting my ass here trying to keep you out of this mess as far as possible, and what do _you_ do? You go behind my back trying to play Superman!"

Charlie wasn't looking at him and only with considerable effort managed to keep his voice relatively calm. "I only wanted to help –"

"Help?! Are you serious? We're all trying to make this easier for you, we're worried about you! All the time we try to think of ways to make this situation a little less painful for you so that you won't have to think back about what happened, but apparently you _want_ to feel more pain! You don't care a damn about the fact that we're all trying to help you, you just need to go on your ego trip, no matter the consequences! Did it ever occur to you that Rosenthal and the others might learn about your renewed involvement in this case? What do you think they're going to do then, huh? You think they'll be pleased? Or have you already forgotten what happened last time when you crossed them?"

Charlie was silent for a moment. Don's words had hit a nerve, but he wasn't willing to go down without a fight. "And what about you? You're also trying to thwart their plans, so _if_ they try to take revenge, they might just as well go against you or the team!"

"But we're _agents_ , Charlie! You just need to let us do our job and stay out of this! Or are you afraid we're too incompetent to keep you safe? Is it that, you stopped trusting us?"

Charlie opened his mouth, but was too dumbfounded to find any words to say. Even if he'd known what to say, he wouldn't have had a chance, for Don had talked himself into a rage. "I mean, I get it! I know I let you down last time, but that's exactly why I won't let that happen again! _We_ are going to take care of this, and you will stay out of this. I'm the one who screwed up, and I'll be the one to straighten things out again!"

Charlie was shaking his head, still having difficulty finding the right words. "What are you talking about?" There was a hint of desperation in his voice. He didn't understand what was going on, and frankly, Don's behavior had started to scare him. "I only wanted to help you. I just wanted to see if I could find a way to help you find these guys, that's all."

"But that's _our_ job! Why can't you trust us to do our job? We're not complete idiots, you know!"

"Wh-? I – I don't –"

"Then stay out of this!"

Don didn't know where his rage was coming from, he just knew that he couldn't let go of it. He didn't want to let go of it. He knew he was right. Charlie was supposed to rest. He was supposed to put this whole thing behind him somehow, so he was supposed to be involved in this case as little as possible, and he certainly wasn't supposed to help them. He'd gone through enough, he certainly didn't need anything else to cause further PTSD. Don knew though his brother had a tendency for self-destructive behavior, yet there was no way he would just stand here and let him wreck what was left of him.

"Can't you at least try to understand my point of view?" Charlie asked. It sounded pleading.

Don clenched his jaw, trying not to let his tone get to him. "No, I can't." He knew he couldn't let Charlie go through with this, not if he really cared about him. "I certainly do _not_ understand why you chose to go behind my back to do something that can only bring harm to you."

"It's not like I _wanted_ to go behind your back! But you just proved to me that I didn't have a choice! I just wanted to help you, Don! I just wanted to do the things I always used to do for your cases! Why is there suddenly something wrong with that?"

And just like that, all of a sudden everything was clear to Don. All the thoughts that had been wandering about in the back of his mind these past few weeks fell into place now, making it so obvious what needed to be done that Don wondered how he'd been able to keep up his denial for so long. Charlie was right. It wasn't just this case. True, this one had been extreme and thus unveiled the issues lying underneath their collaboration, but in the end, those issues had been at play at every single case that Charlie had been consulting on. It was just a fact that his skills had hardly any equal and that this fact was bound to bring him in harm's way. It had happened already and it would happen again, or at least it would if Don didn't pull the plug. No, when he thought about it rationally, there was no reason to keep this up any longer, at least no reason that would make up for the risks. There would be a next time, and there was no guarantee that next time would be another close shave like this, and even if it were, Don wasn't sure if he could handle another emotional turmoil like this. He didn't think so.

So the decision was made. This was it, the end of their working relationship.

"It's not just this case," Don said and had to clear his throat. His mouth was dry, as though his subconscious was trying to keep him from doing this by denying him the saliva he needed. He knew he had to do this though. "I think we both managed for a really long time to persuade ourselves into believing that this could work, but… Face it, Charlie, it doesn't."

"What… what are you saying?"

Don had to avert his gaze. Charlie was looking at him with such expressive eyes and he just couldn't stand the emotion in them, the confusion and the fear. Why was Charlie so adamant not to see it? They _couldn't_ go on doing this. No matter how much Charlie's abilities eased their work, the risk they were facing was just so great that it trumped all other considerations. He'd almost lost him, and he knew he couldn't stand the worry and fear and grief he'd felt for him again.

"I'm saying," he had to clear his throat, again, "I'm saying that you're done with the FBI. You won't be working any more cases for us."

Charlie was staring at him wide-eyed. His mouth was moving, but there were no words coming out. Yet the shock on his face was so apparent that words weren't necessary.

Don felt his heart contract, but he knew he was doing the right thing. "Just think about it rationally, Charlie. We have to stop this."

Charlie's Adam's apple bounced and he was shaking his head. "You can't just –"

Don cut him off, not wanting to hear his reasons, not wanting to let this drag on for longer than was absolutely necessary. "Just cut it out, Charlie! We both know that it was a stupid idea to start this in the first place! You should have just stayed in your academic world and let me handle my job alone!"

Charlie swallowed again, obviously trying to keep his emotions in check. Still his voice was trembling when he answered. "So you want to fire me? You don't want us to work together anymore? Ever?"

Don too had to give himself a moment before he could talk. "That's what I said."

Charlie nodded. The look on his face was hard and his jaw was clenched, but Don could see it was just a mask to hide the feelings underneath. "Alright," Charlie said and his voice was even more tremulous than before. "I agree. There's no point in trying to keep this up if you don't want to." The look in his eyes became even harder, anger showing through. "But you should at least be honest."

Don frowned. "What do you –"

"If you want to pull the plug on this," Charlie continued a bit louder, passing over Don's words, "then at least don't pretend you're just doing it to protect me."

"What?" Don's confusion was perfect now. "Why 'pretend', I'm –"

"Because if you wanted to protect me," Charlie interrupted him again, "you wouldn't discard me like that." Don was shaking his head, still confused, while Charlie took a deep breath, still fighting to control the emotions that were boiling inside him. "Just FYI, I haven't forgotten what happened last time I crossed the terrorists. But I also have to tell you, Don, that I don't remember anyone ever hurting me as much as you did just now."


	59. In the Eye of the Cyclone

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1

* * *

59\. In the Eye of the Cyclone

When Charlie awoke early the next morning, it took him a moment to figure out why he was feeling so miserable. Then he remembered the previous night: the fight with Don, the end of their collaboration. The end of a relationship that should have become strong once.

Charlie couldn't tell for sure, but he thought he might have hurt his brother as well by his words. Don hadn't said anything, but he'd stood abruptly and left the house, probably headed towards Robin. He hadn't seen her nearly as often as he must have wished these past few weeks, having been busy with finding him and with helping him get back on his feet. Charlie couldn't help but wonder if he was regretting that by now.

He shifted his weight and winced when the nerves in his leg reminded him not very pleasantly of his fracture. He swallowed, feeling suddenly trapped. He couldn't go anywhere with this damn leg (at least not far), and, which was far worse, he couldn't free his thoughts from the memories of the park. The worst thing however was the imprisonment presented by his feelings. He just couldn't help but feel that he'd made a mistake, and it was making him nauseous. He knew he shouldn't have betrayed Don's trust like that, not after everything his brother had done for him, and neither because of nor despite knowing how Don would react to Charlie's offer for help. Even if Don was wrong about all the other stuff, he'd been right about one thing: Charlie had been egotistical. He'd known how hard Don was working and he'd known he was doing that primarily to protect him, yet that hadn't kept him from going behind his back. He'd messed up, and thereby he'd probably broken the bond between him and his brother for good.

His chagrin became even more bitter when he thought about the fact that his stupid move had remained completely useless. He hadn't been able to figure out anything before Don had come home, he'd still been busy with organizing the data.

His eyes darted to the papers on the living room table. They were still sitting there next to his laptop and seemed to be whispering to him, _Come on, just do it. What does it matter now anyway?_

He was torn. Of course he wanted to help Don, he wanted this case to stop, for everyone's sake, and he wanted the perpetrators to go behind bars. At the same time, however, he was well aware that Don still hadn't changed his opinion about him working the case, and that he wouldn't change it in the foreseeable future. True, somewhere deep inside Charlie was still hoping that maybe they'd be able to sort this out, that maybe, just maybe they'd be able to work together again…

 _Stop deluding yourself,_ he abruptly cut off his naive train of thoughts. _Don was very clear on this. He doesn't want to work together with you again, ever. Never really wanted to start either. He never ceased seeing you as nothing more than his annoying little brother, only that the annoying little brother wasn't bad at math and he could use that for his career._

This game, however, had only worked according to the rules Don had set up. As soon as Charlie had tried to change them, it had been over.

Don had won.

Charlie bit his lip and held his stomach. The queasy feeling had increased. He was still feeling bitter disappointment because of Don's behavior, he was feeling betrayed and hurt. However, these bitter feelings would have been a lot easier to bear if Charlie had been certain to be in the right, if he'd been certain that Don was wrong. He was far from certain, though. Ever since he could remember he'd been looking up to his big brother, he'd sought his advice in delicate and less delicate situations, either by asking him directly or by simply imagining how Don would act in his place. At bottom, that had always been a good strategy, so that in his mind it had become an almost irrefutable truth that Don was always right and never made mistakes. He was the one who had an answer to every problem and who always acted in a way that was just and right.

Why should he be wrong in this case?

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Don was unusually taciturn this morning, even as measured by his own standards. He was well aware of it, yet didn't care what the others might think of his behavior. His mind was busy with other things. There was, of course, the argument with his brother the night before, and the consequences that ensued. They wouldn't be working together again. All those cases they'd solved together, all the time they'd spent together – there would be nothing more of this in the future.

Until now, Don had refused to think about the consequences of his decision, but still his mind hadn't been idle and had spent a variety of thoughts about it since last night. Yet he knew that he had made the right decision, it had been the right thing to do, he just couldn't expose Charlie further to that giant, indeterminate danger, _it_ _had been_ _the right thing to do!_

So then why did it feel so wrong?

Summoning up all the determination he could find within himself, Don pushed the thoughts out of his conscious mind. There were other things he had to think about. For instance, who had put that piece of paper on his desk? The most likely scenario was that it had been one of his co-workers, though Don was pretty sure it had been none of his team. If Megan, David or Colby had wanted to show him this, they would have acted differently, they would have talked to him, they wouldn't just have put the piece of paper on his desk and let him wonder about its purpose.

It was a printout, a copy of an official document, a letter from the Department of Justice addressed to the CIA's assistant chief lawyer. It was a letter explaining how suspects should be treated, and what purpose the measures described served. Some phrases were blacked out, one was highlighted and it was that one that caught Don's attention. The phrase said, 'The goal of the facial slap is,' and then highlighted, 'not to inflict physical pain that is severe or lasting. Instead, the purpose of the facial slap is to induce shock, surprise, and/or humiliation.'

The words left an uneasy feeling with Don, not just because it was another reminder of what those CIA terrorists had done to his brother, of how methodically they'd tried to wear him down. Even more unsettling though was the insecurity: who had put the sheet of paper here, and why? Was it some kind of hidden threat? Maybe even Charlie's kidnappers had somehow managed to put it there, to taunt Don telling him what they'd done to Charlie – or what they were still planning to do to him, for the facial slap was only one of ten torture methods explained in the document. But maybe Don was being paranoid and the reason for this document was completely harmless, maybe it had simply been put there by a concerned fellow agent who was trying to tell him to watch out for his brother, even when there were no outward injuries to be seen.

Whatever the intention though, Don knew that he didn't like the document. It described torture methods in a way that suggested they were completely legal. And they were legal, at least when used against terror suspects. Terror suspects like Charlie had been one, in a way.

A sudden and overpowering wave of anger inundated Don. He clenched his fists, but that only made the trembling of his body increase. He felt hot; his mind was one flaming red surface screaming at him, conveying one information only: this was what they had done to Charlie. These were the manuals of the men who had taken his brother, those were the rules they'd applied. They had been pursuing the very same goals described here, they had been trying to to frighten Charlie, to humiliate him, in short, to mentally destroy him. And at least for a while, they'd been successful.

His anger, as suddenly as it had flared up inside him, was too strong to be controlled, and it made Don lose the composure he'd been fighting so hard to maintain these last couple of days. He opened the door leading to the interrogation room with a jerk, interrupting his team members in the middle of their work.

"What did you do to him?" he shouted at the suspect, slamming his hands on the table in front of him.

Taccone shrunk back from the sudden appearance, but managed to recover himself remarkably quickly. A sneer appeared on his face, but only for the fracture of a second, for it was then that Don grabbed him at his collar, pressing him against the wall.

The CIA terrorist, however, wasn't intimidated by that. "Hey, hey, hey!" he admonished with that self-confident smile back on his face while David and Colby were pulling Don off of him. "Calm down, alright? I'm pretty sure that's not the way they teach you guys interrogation techniques at Quantico."

Don had calmed down by now, at least enough so that he wouldn't have needed Colby's and David's hands on him. His anger was still there, though, making itself known through the hissing sound of his voice. "Do you really think I give a damn about that right now? I want to know what you did to my brother, and I want to know _now._ " He was still gripping Taccone's collar, but it was more of a gesture now, hardly even a threat, he wasn't trying to inflict pain on him, not anymore.

He was looking right into Taccone's eyes. They were looking back at him coolly, soullessly, with a meaningless expression as though he'd been looking into the eyes of a computer-animated robot. Taccone's eyes were brown, but it wasn't the soft, deep, gentle brown he knew from Charlie's eyes, it was a cool brown, void of emotion.

All of a sudden, he was disgusted by Taccone and he let him go.

The CIA agent took a minute or two to make himself presentable again and only then deigned the agents his attention again. "Calm down, Eppes. We didn't do anything to him."

"Then why is he traumatized?"

Taccone shrugged and Don would have liked to punch that sneering face until the guy would have lost all his teeth. "Those things happen all the time nowadays. People just can't cope anymore with what they see and hear."

"Yeah? So what did he see and hear while he was with you? The bodies of the people you've killed?"

"That _we'_ _ve_ killed? Listen, agent." His eyes became even colder than before, apparently trying to convey a threat. "I think we have to make one thing very clear: if there was anything to your accusation that we had illegally killed those people in Saudi Arabia, then your brother would be just as culpable as us."

Don was breathing heavily. He was slowly realizing that he'd made a mistake by barging in here like that, but he wasn't willing to back down just yet, not before he wouldn't have gotten something useful out of this. "What about the other body?"

Taccone just raised his eye-brows, never losing that damn sneer. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Don had to fight hard to restrain himself. "Charl-… Doctor Eppes saw a body while he was held captive by you. You presented him this body telling him it was me, so who was it? And where is that body now?"

Taccone's grin widened. "Why are you asking _me_ that?"

Don frowned, the question had thrown him off. Before he found something to say, Taccone went on, "We sent him to you."

The lines on Don's forehead became deeper. "You didn't," he said, simply because he found it beyond his power to assent to anything that terrorist said, while at the same time, a suspicion was forming in his mind, making shudders run down his spine.

"Of course we did," Taccone insisted. "Oh right, I guess it's possible we made a mistake there." It was obvious that he was just feigning innocence. "We might have accidentally swapped the nameplate on the urn with one showing your brother's name. Sorry, but you know how it is. Shit happens."

It was as though a flash had struck in Don's mind and he was about to raise his hand when Colby held him back. For some critical moments, they just stood there, frozen in the moment, Don trembling with suppressed emotion, his hand still ready to strike, to beat the living daylights out of that scumbag. Then, however, he got a grip on himself, and when he made a step bag, Colby too let go of him.

He left, leaving it to them to continue the interrogation. When he arrived at his cubicle, his feet having taken him there without a conscious thought of him, he could feel the energy leave his body. He put his head in his hands, yearning for some quiet.

This was hard. It was hard discovering piece by piece all the events of the past couple of months, all those little details that together had made Don's life a living hell. He'd thought it'd be easier now to go through those memories, now that they'd come out of this alright. He'd been wrong, though, and that made him wonder whether his assessment was true, whether they'd really come out of this alright already.

Yet he knew that this was what they were going for, this is why they were doing all the work, because they wanted to figure out what had happened.

So the ashes had been real. He'd learned that, that was something good, they were making progress. There had been a real body in that urn, albeit it hadn't been his brother. When he thought back to how the mere sight of that urn had made him feel at Charlie's funeral, to the grief he'd felt when they'd thought they'd lost him…

He had trouble holding back the tears. He could see himself stand at Charlie's open grave again, railing against an unjust God. He felt himself thrown back into his time of depression, when he hadn't been able to find his way out of that black pool of desperation, and he felt the pain again, that unbearable pain…

 _It's over now_ , he forced himself to think. _It's over. Charlie's okay, he's back, everything's fine. Get yourself together._

He had to get a grip on himself. He couldn't let himself go like that again, he couldn't make a mistake now. Taccone was one of the men that had done this to his brother, to all of them, and he had it in his power to bring them to justice. He couldn't make a mistake.

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Alan was a bit surprised when upon his awakening he realized that Don hadn't slept in his bed the previous night. His surprise continued when he saw Charlie on the couch, lying there listlessly, yet not sleeping, his open eyes staring into emptiness apathetically and sadly.

A suspicion began forming in his mind. It hadn't slipped his attention that Charlie had become more active again yesterday. In the early afternoon, he'd asked him for his laptop and Alan had brought him the quite dusted item down from his room. He hadn't been entirely certain what Charlie was working on, and frankly, he hadn't really cared. He'd just been glad that Charlie had stopped sleeping through entire days and was starting to keep his mind busy again. Charlie needed that. Yet Alan made sure that his son wasn't overexerting himself. He wouldn't have needed to worry, though. Charlie had regular breaks, either to eat, to talk or to take a short nap. Things were starting to get better with him.

Or they had been going better, until now. Now his son was back to staring into emptiness as though he was lost in the depths of his hardly uplifting memories once again. Alan couldn't be sure why that was, but he was almost certain that the fact that Don hadn't slept here last night had something to do with that.

"Good morning," he greeted his son with slightly exaggerated merriness. "Sleep well?"

Charlie nodded without lifting his gaze. Alan refrained from taking his words at face value. "You've been up for long? But apparently not long enough to start working again," he said, indicating the laptop sitting on the table.

Again Charlie shook his head, again unmoving otherwise.

"I'd like to go back to my room," he suddenly said.

Alan raised his eye-brows. "When? Today?"

"At once. If you don't mind."

Alan was still a little befuddled, still wondering what this was all about. "Of course. Let's just have some breakfast first."

Charlie nodded.

While Alan was drinking his coffee, his gaze was fixed upon his youngest son as he worriedly wondered what could have happened. Maybe he had overexerted himself after all? In that case, however, he'd still have trouble explaining his other son's behavior. That seemed much more indicative of an argument between the two brothers. It had been bound to happen sooner or later, with them back to living under the same roof and with all the stress they'd been under these last couple of weeks. But what had they been arguing about? True, Alan had a feeling, but he didn't find his theory entirely convincing. He knew that Don had developed an acute sense of brotherly protectiveness, especially since Charlie had come back to them, and it wasn't hard to guess that if he found out about Charlie starting to work again, he'd upbraid him for neglecting his health. Yet such a fight wouldn't justify what Alan was seeing, neither Don's absence so early in the morning nor Charlie's despondency, especially since Charlie could have nipped Don's accusations in the bud. He hadn't been overexerting himself, and he wasn't neglecting his health, in fact, it rather seemed as though he was trying to get back on his feet, using the resources he usually used, in his case math. True, he had a tendency to get extreme when he chose to retreat in such a manner. Yesterday, however, it hadn't been extreme.

The only thing extreme was the sadness in Charlie's eyes.

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Don was despondent. He hated fighting with Charlie. Sure, they had their banters and every now and then a little altercation, but those were things that were normal, that sometimes even made them closer in the end. Last night, however, it had been a fight, a bad one, one that Don wouldn't have thought he could have with his currently so worn out little brother. Yet they'd fought. Didn't that mean that he didn't care as much about his brother as he liked to think of himself?

On the other hand, it had been necessary, for Charlie's own sake, for his safety. For his safety it was necessary that they wouldn't work together ever again. Don would keep his family far away from his job and its risks from now on, he wouldn't endanger them any further. That was it, he'd made his decision, and he wasn't willing to keep on brooding over it.

Yet, he couldn't ban the subject from his mind completely. He knew what Charlie's skills could do, he knew they'd be a great help in their current situation, and he'd sworn to himself not to make another mistake in this case. Didn't that mean he had to ask Charlie for his help once more?

Fortunately, however, Charlie wasn't the only scientist he knew. If he couldn't ask his brother, he'd just ask someone else for help. It was the best solution for everyone, simple and efficient – right?

Unwilling to think about this further, he made the call and didn't have to wait for long before it was answered. "Ramanujan?"

"Hey, Amita. I hope I'm not interrupting anything?"

He could actually hear a smile in her voice. "During finals you're either always interrupting or never more than at any other time, so take your pick. What's going on?"

"We need your help, yours and Larry's."

The smile disappeared from her voice and was replaced by worry. "What about Charlie? I thought he was going to help you. Did something happen?"

Don suppressed a growl. So Amita had known about it. Apparently everyone had known that Charlie was trying to work the case, everyone except for him. "No, nothing happened," he replied curtly. "I just don't want him to interfere in the case further. That's also why I have to ask you not to tell him anything – not anything – about the case if you accept to help us. Are we clear?"

Amita hesitated briefly. "Of course," she then said, a little too politely. Don's tone obviously wasn't to her liking.

Don sighed again. It wasn't like he intended on being so gruff, and he also realized that his behavior was less than clever given the fact that he needed their help, but that didn't enable him to just magically do away with his bad mood. He could only try to get a grip on himself. "I'm sorry, Amita, I'm just stressed out at the moment, you know how it is. Look, I don't know what it is that Charlie had been trying to do, but in any case our goal is to figure out what Rosenthal, Patter and Kirtland are planning to do. You can think of anything that might give us an indication about that?"

"Well, we could try to analyze their actions up to this point with some game theory and then try to detect a pattern in their moves. With that we could give you some probabilities for their possible next moves. Would that help you?"

"I'm certain that it would. But Amita…" He hesitated, but he knew he had to be fair to her. "Look, I'd understand if you didn't want to have anything to do with this whole mess ever again, so –"

"Just stop, Don," Amita interrupted him, an unusual amount of determination in her voice. "These men took Charlie, of course we're not going to just back down."

Don nodded. That was a train of thoughts he was familiar with.


	60. Surprise!

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1  
 **A/N:** Chapters come to those who wait... Sorry again. It's just that I'm not very happy with these last couple of chapters and I have to make a lot of changes, which takes time (something I don't have plenty of right now). I hope you'll find the waiting worth it.

* * *

60\. Surprise!

Amita was pleasantly surprised when she picked up the phone. "Charlie!"

"Hey, Amita. How are you doing?"

"I'm fine," Amita said, still happy to hear his voice, yet still slightly confused. "Well, it's a bit stressful these days, of course, but you know how it is with finals."

"Yeah, I know, that's why I'm calling. I thought maybe you guys could use some help, you or maybe Larry? I could go over the exams you prepared once more, make sure there aren't any mistakes left in them, or I could help you with the corrections. Whatever you need."

Amita was still joyous when she answered, "That's very nice of you, Charlie." She thought for a second, her happiness receding a bit. "Though I really can't think of anything you could do for me. Larry and I already went over each other's exam questions and now all the things that remain for me to do are things I should do myself, I mean apart from..." All of a sudden it occurred to her that she'd promised Don not to talk to Charlie about that and she fell silent, thinking hard how to finish her sentence without breaking her promise.

"Apart from what?" he prompted.

Amita bit her lip. She hated doing this, but she'd made a promise to Don. Still, she tried to wriggle her way out of actually lying to Charlie. "Never mind. I just thought there was something you could do for me, but I realized that I should do that on my own as well."

"Did Don ask you for your help on the case?"

Amita almost dropped her phone. How did Charlie know? Had he read her mind? Or had someone told him? But who? Larry? For Don himself surely hadn't done that.

"He actually did," Charlie answered his own question, and Amita was thankful for that. His quick thinking (or mind-reading, who knew) had rescued her from a dilemma. "Did he ask Larry, too?" Again he answered his own question. "Of course he did. Don probably asked you to help him out without really knowing what it was that he wanted you to do. And without being aware that combinatorics and physics are two very different animals."

Amita couldn't miss the bitter tone in his voice. She hesitated, but she knew how much Don meant to Charlie and that she couldn't just pass over the fact that there was something amiss between the two brothers, not if she wanted to help Charlie. "What's going on?" she asked softly. "What's been happening between you and Don?"

There was some silence at his end. Then he said, "I don't know. Let's not talk about that now."

Amita, hearing the despondency in his voice, allowed herself to be persuaded to do him that favor, but was at a loss what to say to make him feel better. She was well aware of how useless he felt at the moment, she knew he was desperate to do something, to fight his way back to his old life. Still, she'd told him the truth earlier, she had absolutely no idea how he could help her.

"Listen," she started, still thinking hard how she could make him feel better. "Why don't you come over to my place tonight? I could cook us a nice dinner. Or I simply come over to your place, I guess that would be a lot easier with your leg."

"That's really nice of you, Amita." She could practically see his sad smile and it was breaking her heart. "I don't know, I should probably turn in early tonight. Until then, I think I'll take a look at my old drafts for the emergence theory again. See if there's still some value to that."

"Yeah, sounds like a plan," Amita said with forced joyfulness, but now her face was housing one of those sad smiles as well. "I'll talk to you later," she tried to make things a little better before they said their good-byes.

"Was that Charles?"

Amita flinched. She had completely forgotten Larry's presence. He'd been sitting there in a quiet corner of the room, immersed in a magnitude of papers.

When she'd recovered, she nodded. "Yeah, that was him." She fell silent for a minute, still thinking about their conversation, about the somber tone of his voice. "We have to cheer him up somehow," she then said. "He's so… I don't know, so sad since he's back."

Larry gave her a smile, but that too was a sad one. "I think that was something to be expected under the circumstances."

Even if she'd wanted to contradict him, she wouldn't have had a chance, for at that moment, her cell phone rang again.

"Hey, Amita, it's me, Don. Listen, I just sent David and Colby over to you to bring you the rest of the files, they should be there any minute now. Have you already made some progress?"

Amita turned towards her laptop. "I'm not sure," she said. "We examined the picture taken by the speed trap a little closer and tried to make some enhancements, similar to what we did with the images taken by the surveillance cameras when they'd taken Charlie."

"And did you find anything?"

"We did, but I don't think it's going to help you much. We managed to get a better picture of the papers lying on the dashboard behind the windshield. It appears to be a list of cities and streets describing the route the driver should have taken, but since you said that the van had been stolen, that list is probably irrelevant, right? Anyway, I'm gonna email it to you."

"Alright, thanks."

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Following her boss's orders, Megan opened the email and the attached image. Don, standing behind her, squinted his eyes. The enlargement showed the list lying on the van's dashboard, a little difficult to read through the windshield. Still, Larry and Amita had managed to make the names on that list close-to readable, as though you were looking at them without your reading glasses.

"That could read 'Reed Point'", Megan said, squinting at the screen, "so maybe this could be 'Columbus' and that one 'Greycliff'. Those are all towns in Montana, they must have stolen the van while they'd still been up there in or near the park."

Don nodded. "We should try and find witnesses who saw the van so we can figure out when it has been stolen and establish a timeline. Maybe now that we've got a better idea where it was stolen, we'll be luckier than we have been so far. It should also be easier now to find its proprietor."

"I'll do that."

She was already reaching for her phone, but Don held her back. "Wait." He was pointing at the picture. "Can you tell what that is?"

She took a closer look at the dark stripes running across the windshield. "It's trees," she said then. "They reflect in the windshield."

Don nodded slowly. That's what he'd been thinking. He didn't know why, but he couldn't shake a feeling of trepidation looking at those shadows. There were five, no, six of them, at more or less equal distance from each other. At bottom, all they could see of the trees were their trunks, only in the uppermost part of the picture, you could see the beginnings of the crown. They had to be large trees, extraordinarily large… Don knew he recognized those trees, but there was something wrong with that, they couldn't –

"Megan?" His voice was trembling. "What kind of trees are those?"

His heart was beating painfully in his chest as he waited for her to make the identification. "I don't… I mean, they look like sequoias."

He nodded, his head suddenly very hot, and tried to swallow down the sick feeling in his stomach. His hand was shaking as he pulled out his cell. "They do," he said with forced calmness as he waited for the call to connect. "But as far as I know, sequoias only grow in California, certainly not in Texas."

She stared at him wide-eyed, realization dawning on her face, but he took no notice of that. His attention was entirely focused on the sounds coming out of his cell phone as he stood there and waited impatiently for the phone to be picked up at the other end. All he could hear though was the blood running in his ears and his own breathing that was quicker than it should be.

 _Please, Charlie,_ he prayed silently. _Please, pick up. It's important._

But all he heard was the dialing tone.

His heart skipped a beat. Then, however, he realized that they had to act, and that as fast as possible.

Megan was at his heels as he made his way to the elevators. There was no explanation necessary between the two, both understanding only too well how precarious this situation was. While they were still hurrying through the office, Don, thinking, _hoping_ that Charlie might just have considered it too cumbersome to get to the landline with his leg, tried his cell. His wild hope made his heart beat forcefully for a couple of moments until it was shattered: there was nobody picking up.

The walls of the elevator car seemed to be closing in on Don. All of a sudden he had trouble breathing and his head was feeling hotter than ever. This couldn't be happening, it just couldn't –

 _Get yourself together!_ he silently shouted at himself. He had to maintain a clear head, he had to make the right decisions now. for Charlie's life depended on it. There was no time for mistakes now, and no time for panic or second-guessing.

At least when he called Colby, the call was connected. "Hey Don –"

Don wouldn't waste any more time than they already had. "Are you at CalSci yet?" he asked while he and Megan were running to his SUV.

He noticed that his tone had put his team colleague on the alert, and he was thankful for his efficiency. "We just arrived, what's wrong?"

"They're here, they tricked us. We have to get to Charlie at once, and you're closer than us. He's not picking up his phone and we think –" He couldn't finish the sentence and only went on talking when he opened the door to his car. "We think the kidnappers may have attacked him again. The picture's a fake, they've never been in Texas, they must have taken the picture somewhere here in California."

"But how –"

He started the engine while Megan turned on the sirens. "Kirtland's a hacker, Colby! They must have hacked into the traffic offenders system somehow and put the flawed data there! In any case they're in California, and they've been here for at least two days now! And we know they wanna do away with Charlie, so hurry up!"

"Got it," was all that Colby said before he hung up.

Don swallowed hard, trying to concentrate on the traffic and failing utterly. He knew he was driving too fast – well, within the legal limit, since there was none with the sirens turned on, but not within any rational limit, not given the state his mind was in. On the other hand, he was only too well aware that he was driving much too slow, for he knew there wasn't a moment to be lost. He knew that Charlie was home right now, probably alone since their dad had been planning on running some errands, yet he hadn't picked up the landline, nor his cell, which had to mean that something was keeping him from getting to the phone. Someone. Given the circumstances, Don could think of only one logical explanation, and he didn't like that one bit.

The heat returned to his head with a vengeance while at the same time, an icy hand clenched his heart in an iron grip, threatening to shatter it. It just couldn't be that the kidnappers got first to Charlie once again, that Don and his team were late once again, maybe too late this time…

It couldn't be. They couldn't let that happen. They had to catch the kidnappers before they could act on their plans, there just wasn't any other way.

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David's heart was racing in his chest. True, Colby's short explanation hadn't really explained anything and he didn't understand how Don could be so sure that the kidnappers were somewhere close instead of somewhere near or across the Mexican border. What he did understand though was that this was serious, and he'd learned to trust his team unconditionally when things became serious, for if he didn't, that could easily result in someone losing one's life. That someone, in this case, was Charlie.

As soon as they arrived in Pasadena, they turned off the horn, even though they left the blue light switched on so that they were still recognizable as a police car. They didn't want to scare the kidnappers away too early, although on the other hand they would have preferred them to be at a greater distance from their favorite murder victim.

David had to admit that he was a bit surprised by Rosenthal's course of action. He'd been certain that the three remaining kidnappers wouldn't plan to make their own hands dirty with Charlie's blood, but would outsource the job, just like they'd done with the murder of Anna Silversteen. On the other hand, it made sense. With all the recent arrests, their net of loyal handymen still willing to take the risk was probably shrinking fast – especially since they couldn't be sure whether the FBI had found their partners and was watching them. Besides, from the terrorists' point of view, so much had gone wrong in regard to Charlie already that they were probably eager to finish the job themselves, to be on the safe side. In the end, it didn't matter. Rosenthal and the other two were here, or at least that was the assumption by which they were going to act until proven otherwise.

With screeching tires, their car came to a stop in Charlie's driveway. David and Colby jumped out and left the doors open as they ran towards the house, drawing their weapons.

The door wasn't locked, which alone raised David's hackles. They didn't stop to look for traces of force at the lock, but hurried to get inside and search the house, always expecting the terrorists jumping out from behind a curtain or a corner and opening fire.

Instead, however, they could hear a panicked voice coming from the back of the house, though the words were indiscernible.

"The kitchen!" Colby exclaimed and spurted into that direction with David at his heels.

The back door was standing wide open, the curtain still waving. And there, on the house's backside, there were two dark figures running across the lawn.

David and Colby immediately took up the chase.

"Stop! FBI!" David shouted, but the two men didn't take any notice of that.

Even from the distance and in the waning light of the afternoon sun, David could see that one of them was blond. That had to be Patter. The other one had dark hair, which would fit both Rosenthal and Kirtland. Judging from his physique, however, David guessed they were chasing Rosenthal, for Kirtland was a lot smaller and more slender. But no matter whether the second figure was Rosenthal or Kirtland, the fact was that there were only two of them. Where was the third kidnapper? Was he still in the house right now, making use of the diversion his two accomplices had provided for him? Was he eliminating Charlie in this very moment while they were chasing two men that only presented a more distant kind of danger to him?

For a moment, David was strongly tempted to turn around on the spot, but he knew he couldn't do that. He couldn't abandon his partner and he couldn't let the other two terrorists get away. After all, they didn't know where Kirtland was, maybe he hadn't even come to the house with his two accomplices to begin with. All three of them presented danger for Charlie with the simple difference being that they had a real chance to catch Patter and Rosenthal whereas going back to the house now might result in nothing. And even if Kirtland was in the house, there was still a chance that Don and Megan might apprehend him before he could do any harm to Charlie. No, rationally it was the best thing to continue the chase of the other two. Still, David couldn't get rid of the sick feeling in his stomach.

He and Colby had just jumped over a low hedge and were now back on the street. Patter and Rosenthal were only few yards ahead of them, they just had to go a little faster, just a little…

The problem was that they couldn't. They couldn't go faster than they already were, but they just had to catch those two, fast, they just –

A car was coming towards them a little too fast just as the two terrorists were about to cross the street. They tried anyway. The driver hit the brakes, the tires were screeching loudly in the quiet neighborhood, but not as loud as the sound of the horn. Patter was running ahead, he was too fast to change his course and was running right into the car. He was lucky though, the car was just coming to a stop as he slid across the hood, so he actually managed to land on his feet on the other side, apparently not hurt.

Rosenthal had been one or two yards behind him. He managed not to run into the car, but instead decided for the detour around the hood. Still, the car had cost them both some valuable moments, and even though it couldn't have been more than a couple of deciseconds, the gap to their pursuers got smaller. Even more significant was the fact that they had lost their velocity, so the two agents were now gaining upon them fast.

Colby gave his partner a signal and David knew at once what to do. He zeroed in on Rosenthal while Colby was concentrating on Patter, and when he was just at an arm's length's distance from him, he jumped him, making both of them going down with Rosenthal softening David's own fall.

"Daniel Rosenthal and Cedric Patter, you're under arrest for the planning and committing of terrorist activities, the murder of Anna Silversteen, the abduction of Professor Charlie Eppes and the physical assault against Professor Lawrence Fleinhardt," Colby panted, and David couldn't help but feel a little awe for him because he'd managed to collect enough breath to give them the speech.

He himself had just cuffed Rosenthal and now that he was reassured that the terrorist wasn't going to escape that easily, he too decided to use some of his hard-earned breath for gathering information. "Where is he?" he asked and was pretty certain that the wild beating of his heart wasn't solely caused by the chase.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Rosenthal replied coolly. He'd tried to adapt a haughty, arrogant tone, and since he was sprawled on the ground with David still holding him down, the effect was almost comical. Maybe it would have been if they had been in the mood for laughing.

David strengthened his grip, pulling Rosenthal's head up at his collar and secretly hoping it would hurt a little. "Where is Professor Eppes? What did you do to him?"

"As I said, I don't know what you're talking about."

David realized that this 'interrogation' wasn't going to lead them anywhere anytime soon, and time was of the essence now. They had to get back to the Craftsman as soon as possible, always hoping that they weren't too late already.

* * *

When they had just reached the house, Don was coming running towards them from down the street.

"Where is he?" he called out to his team members before he came to a stop in front of them.

"They're not talking," David replied, still holding Rosenthal firmly in his grip. "Where's Megan?"

"With Kirtland, he'd been waiting for them in a van down the street."

His last words were difficult to understand for he'd already turned away from them to dash into the house.

"Charlie?" they heard him shout. They listened tensely for the noises coming from inside, Don's loud and hurried footsteps as he searched the house, glancing into each room, jumping up the stairs, and the bangs of doors falling against the walls by being opened too roughly.

Even though the Eppes residence was spacious, it didn't take Don more than a couple of seconds until he came out of the house again, a wild look on his face and taking long strides directly towards the two terrorists. Before David and Colby could react, he was already gripping Rosenthal at his collar and pressing him against their car.

"Where is he?" he hissed. "What did you do to him?"

David shuddered at the sight of his boss. Don's face had turned into a mask of burning rage. His skin was white except for the feverish blush of his cheeks. His pale lips were trembling and his eyes protruding, firing flashes at the suspect.

"Where is he?" His voice was louder now, more demanding, but also more trembling than before. "Tell me what you did to him, or I swear I'm gonna break every single bone in your body!"

"I really don't know what you're talking about. I didn't do anything."

"WHERE'S CHARLIE?" Don shouted against the cool facade. "I'm warning you, if you did so much as lay a finger on him, I swear to God I..."

He didn't go on. He couldn't. He pressed his lips together and turned away, letting Rosenthal go. As he turned back to the house, David distinctly saw the tears in his eyes.

He watched him re-enter the house, unable to avert his gaze from his boss's figure that always seemed so strong and now looked so… so broken. There was no other word for it, and the sound of Don's voice as he resumed his search for his brother made the effect so much worse that David felt his throat tighten mightily. This wasn't good. If Charlie wasn't in the house, then where was he? Even worse, however, was the idea that he might still be in the house, for then how could Don have overlooked him if Charlie had still been standing on his feet or in a position to answer his calls?


	61. Happy End?

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1

* * *

61\. Happy End?

This second time, Don was telling himself to conduct his search more systematically and calmly than the previous time. He did indeed succeed with being more systematic, but his calm was long gone. He could sense that his hands were shaking, he could see the raised hairs on his forearms as he opened doors and cupboards and he could feel the cold sweat on his skin. His voice too failed him. After the third or fourth call for his brother, he just couldn't get another syllable out, for Charlie was gone, he wasn't here, he was gone…

Something caught his eye and he stopped short, turning his head back to the small object. Charlie's cell. There it was, lying on the coffee table in the living room, in the middle of a ton of papers. Charlie himself, however, was nowhere to be seen.

"Charlie?" he tried one last time, turning around his own axis as though his brother might jump out from behind a curtain any moment now. He didn't.

For a moment, Don thought his knees were going to buckle. He couldn't do this. He was about to call out for his team, but he knew that the most sensible solution was for them to guard the three terrorists they'd just caught. He just had to go on with his search, he had to ascertain whether Charlie was here somewhere and, considering he might be lying somewhere hurt and helpless, he had to do that fast.

Swallowing down his fear and the tears, he went upstairs, forcing himself to take step after step closer to what he was afraid could be waiting for him there. Maybe the next cupboard he would open would end his search, because maybe Charlie's body would tumble out, bloody and lifeless…

The door to Charlie's room was open and once again, Don stood abruptly, unable to go on. The room looked like it always did, pretty much the same way it had been like during the past couple of months, when his dad had been reluctant to change anything in his son's room. Only one thing was out of the ordinary and that was the cordless phone lying on the window sill.

Don swallowed hard. Charlie had been here, not too long ago, and he felt sick imagining what he might find when he searched the room. It didn't make sense to stall, though.

He breathed a small sigh of relief as he looked under the bed and saw that there was nothing down here. With heavy limbs that were reluctant to go on with his task, he got up from the floor again and opened the cupboards with trembling hands. He held his breath as he opened them, one by one, then closed his eyes. Thank God, nothing here either.

The sick feeling, however, was back, as was the fear that he might not be that lucky with the next room he'd search and with the next cupboard he'd have to open. He just had to go through with this though, there was no way around it.

"Charlie?" he called when he stepped out into the hallway, looking up and down as though he was expecting his brother to just materialize. His voice was still thin, still hardly sounding like him at all, still fighting against the fear that was constricting his throat.

Next was his father's bedroom. The door was still open from his first rushed search, presenting him with the view on the double bed his parents used to share. From out here in the hallway, nothing out of the ordinary was to be seen, but that didn't have to mean anything.

"Charlie?" he called again as he stood in the door frame as if he could thereby stall for more time, as if he could thereby avoid being confronted with the end of his search for as long as possible. Just as he decided that this behavior was stupid and entered the room, there was a sound that made his heart stop.

He stood, rooted on the spot, unable to do anything at all. His mind was yelling at him to go on, to figure out what that sound meant, but his body refused to oblige. It was as though the connection between the two entities had been broken, as though there was one entity that represented his body that was standing here in this room, and an entirely different entity that tried giving that body orders, but that could never succeed because it could never surmount the distance between them. Yet Don knew that things weren't the way they seemed at first glance, that his mind and body weren't disconnected, that instead, the real problem lay in the mind giving mixed signals. For as much as he yelled at the body to stop this insecurity, it was shouting just as loudly to stay right there, to remain in this volatile balance, out of fear to shatter his tentative hope.

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Charlie was almost certain that the drumming beating of his heart could be heard even from the hallway as he was lying there in his hiding-place. He didn't know how long he'd been in here, he only knew that it was getting uncomfortable really fast. His leg was throbbing and the crutches were stabbing his side and ribs and for a moment, he regretted that he hadn't simply left them outside. He was well aware, however, that if he'd done that, he could have just as well left his opponents neon signs to guide them. Anyway, he knew that the pain his pose was causing him was a temporary one, so sticking it out was worth it, given that the alternative would be falling once again into the terrorists' hands. That was something that he just couldn't let happen. The only question was which event would end his silent suffering: the terrorists finding him or the terrorists giving up their search. Or him suffocating under this heavy blanket, who knew.

The thought made him realize how restricted he was in here. He could hardly move his arms, and the air he was breathing hardly contained any oxygen. Maybe the possibility of suffocation wasn't as far-fetched as he'd initially thought.

Suddenly, his mouth was dry and his breathing became more labored as though the mere fear of running out of oxygen was sucking out the air of his lungs.

 _Stop it_ , he admonished himself. _Calm down. You're not going to suffocate in here, at most you're going to hyperventilate, so just stop working yourself up into a panic attack._

He took a couple of deep breaths and then it was better, the sides of his wooden hiding-place didn't seem to be coming down on him anymore. He just had to stay calm, then he'd still have a chance to get through this without suffering further harm from his adversaries. All he had to do was keep quiet and hope that good fortune would be on his side today. He knew that Rosenthal and Patter were here somewhere, he'd seen them cross the lawn at the backside of the house when he'd been staring outside the window after his phone conversation with Amita. At first, he hadn't been sure whether he could trust his eyes, but then he'd decided to react first and ask questions later and had begun his frantic planning of how to avoid falling into their hands once again. Soon, however, he'd had to realize that his options were severely limited. He couldn't very well fight them, all he could really do was hide and hope for their search to come to an early and unsuccessful end.

So he knew they were here, he just didn't know in which room they were right now and when they would get to searching this room. If they took their time, it was very well possible that they wouldn't get through with their search before someone would interrupt them. After all, he'd heard his phone ring earlier, both the landline and his cell – and he still felt like kicking himself for not having it taken with him when he'd moved upstairs this morning. His cell would be a most invaluable tool in his current situation, and even the landline's phone might have helped him. In any event it would have been more helpful here than lying on the window sill where he'd left it without thinking when his eyes had caught the terrorists. But if he was lucky, it had been his dad or Don that had tried to reach him earlier, and given the most recent events, it wasn't that unlikely that they would worry about him, maybe even enough so they would hurry to get back to the house. This prospect, however, didn't fill Charlie with just hope, but even more than that with worry and fear: if his dad returned to the house while the terrorists were still searching for him, then what would they do to him? He knew that they were ruthless, and there was so much at stake for them. What if they killed his dad?

To make matters worse, Charlie realized that call or no call, his dad wouldn't be gone for too much longer anyway. True, he sometimes took his time when shopping for groceries, also because he usually ran into a couple of people he had a little chat with. However, Charlie was almost certain that today, his dad would do his best to cut running his errands short and not leave his mobility impaired son alone for too long.

He suppressed a sigh, sending a silent prayer to a deity he did not know he could believe in that his dad would stay away from the house long enough. That, however, did not solve his problem how to get rid of the terrorists. How should he keep them from just going through the house inch by inch until they would have found him? True, it was still possible for Don to return from work within the next couple of minutes, but even if he did, the odds in a fight between him and the two terrorists were against him, especially since he had no reason to expect an enemy party to have invaded his childhood home. On the other hand, if he had been the one who had called earlier, or if the caller, whoever it had been, had notified him, there was a chance that Don would come prepared, that he'd maybe even take someone from his team with him. It was unlikely that he'd react in such an exaggerated manner, true, but given his recent behavior, it was not impossible, and Charlie just had to keep up his hope if he didn't want to get insane in here.

He noticed that his breathing had quickened again and he fought to keep it inaudible, even though that meant taking shallow breaths that hardly put enough oxygen in his lungs. With regard to that, the blanket really wasn't helping. It was also making him hot, he'd started sweating, although he guessed that his fear was just as much to blame for that as the blanket. And then, making him scared, tense and somehow relieved at the same time, he heard it.

Someone had entered the room. Charlie held his breath and strained his ears to listen to the footsteps outside his hiding-place. They were quiet, almost inaudible, and Charlie could more sense than hear the intruders' presence. They had started searching this room, they were still quiet, but he knew they were still here, and he knew that any moment now, they'd have to open the lid of the storage space he was hiding in. Why on earth had he chosen a hiding-place where he was so helpless? Once they opened the lid, he'd be lost, there'd be no way out for him, they'd simply –

"Holy crap, the feds!" he heard Patter shout. His voice came from the window, then there were sudden and abrupt movements, quick and loud footsteps, noises coming from the wooden stairs, then from downstairs, but he couldn't distinguish them, some of them sounded like voices, but he couldn't be sure whether they still belonged to Rosenthal and Patter. Or to the 'feds'. And then, all of a sudden, there was silence.

He only noticed now that he was trembling all over and probably had been from the moment he'd seen the two terrorists cross the lawn, few minutes earlier. He tried keeping his breathing calm in case they came back, but he had difficulty succeeding.

He bit his lip, trying to control his agitation. Was that Don? Were the terrorists running from him? Or was it another ruse? It would be so much like them, Charlie could practically see them sneak back into the house to wait for him to come out of his hiding-place. That sort of trickery was right up their alley, and Charlie couldn't afford to fall for their pranks once again. He'd just have to wait. Either it was a trick, then he'd just have to stick this out until… well, better not think about that. Or it was real, and then he just had to wait for rescue to come. Either way, waiting was the most rational thing for him to do now.

What sounded so clear and logical in theory was a more upsetting endeavor in practice and Charlie's heart was beating forcefully as he lay there silently, straining his ears to figure out what was going on outside. Things had been silent for a while now, but then the noises came back, and Charlie's blood froze. There was the sound of banging doors, of cupboards being opened. It sounded harsh, angry. Had the terrorists come back, furious that their plan of luring him out hadn't worked?

Then, all of a sudden, the noises were gone again, and Charlie frowned. It had been a pretty loud intermezzo of only a couple of seconds, then this nerve-wrecking silence again. What on earth had that been? What were they trying to accomplish by that? What on earth was going on?

 _Breathe,_ he told himself and started slowly counting in his head. It helped to calm him down, and it also gave him a sense of time back. Thus he was relatively certain that it could have only been a couple of minutes and not the ages it felt like that he was lying there before he heard another noise that didn't belong here.

"Charlie?"

He had to contain himself not to let loose a small cry. Had he heard right? That had been Don, right? It must have been Don, even though his voice had sounded strange, thin and trembling. He swallowed hard, clinging to his hope that this was real, that it wasn't another one of their tricks. Maybe they'd overpowered Don somehow and were forcing him to call out for Charlie, to lure him out? That would explain why Don's voice sounded so strange. But everything inside Charlie was reluctant to accept that image that his dark thoughts presented him with.

"Charlie?" the voice called again, and Charlie decided to trust his instincts and cling to his hope.

"I'm here!" he called out. "In the storage space of the bookcase headboard!"

He tried freeing his body from the blanket he'd put over himself. As inadequate as it had been as a cover, as difficult was it now to get it off of himself. He'd just freed his hands and was trying to lift the lid of the storage space as he felt the weight being taken away from his fingers. Light fell in and against it, he could see the outline of Don's head.

"Charlie, thank God," he heard him whisper, but only when he saw him close his eyes with relief did the realization hit that this nightmare was finally over now.

He felt a lump form in his own throat and lay his head back so he could breathe more easily. Don was here, he was save. It was over.

It was, wasn't it?

His eyes popped open and alarmed, he said, "Rosenthal and Patter, they were here, did you –"

He saw Don nod and stopped, waiting for a verbal confirmation.

"We got them," Don finally said, his voice still low and somehow not sounding like him, though Charlie couldn't put a name on what exactly was different. "They're downstairs with the team. Kirtland, too."

Charlie just nodded, relief flooding over now and constricting his throat, making it impossible for him to form words. It _was_ over. After all these months, it was finally over, the perpetrators were caught and he could live his life without constantly looking over his shoulder.

"How the hell did you even get in there?" Don's voice brought him back to his present situation. He looked around, finding that in his cramped and lying position, the walls of the storage space seemed not only pretty narrow, but also pretty steep. When he'd been in need of a hiding-place, he too hadn't been sure whether he would still fit in here. True, the storage space had been a popular hiding-place when they had been kids, but since that time, he'd grown quite a bit and also put on a considerable amount of weight, even given the fact that he'd lost a good deal of that during the tribulations of the last couple of months. He hadn't really had time to ponder his options though and he had risked it. The length of the storage space had presented no problem at all since it ran alongside the entire headboard of the double bed, but its width measured hardly a foot. Right now, however, the problem at hand consisted in the height of the storage space, which measured almost a yard and thus too much for Charlie to pull himself out by his own efforts.

"I'm more interested in how I'm supposed to get out of here," he therefore mumbled and tried pulling himself up at the box's top edge. He winced when the movement caused pressure on his injured leg and he sank back again.

"Hold on," Don said quietly. "Just try pushing yourself up with your good leg while I pull you out, okay?" He put his hands under Charlie's shoulders and together they managed. True, they couldn't eliminate all the pain, but Charlie realized that the gentleness that Don was displaying – a gentleness Charlie wouldn't have thought him capable of – saved him from the major part. Then, he was out and sitting on the edge of the bed next to Don, biting his lip to control the pain and trying to shift his leg into a more comfortable position.

"You're okay?"

The rough voice beside him made him look up and what he saw even made him shrink back a little. The light of the late afternoon sun was falling on Don's face now so that now he could clearly see the deep lines that were covering it. It seemed to him as though Don had aged almost a decade over the past year and he wasn't entirely sure whether it was just the light that made the small hairs above his ears seem a little grayish. The thing that really hit Charlie, however, was the look in Don's eyes. Those eyes that had always been so steady, so full of determination, were wavering now, showing an insecurity in their depths that was frightening him. The effect was worsened by the moisture that those eyes held. True, Charlie couldn't see any tears, but neither could he miss the fact that his brother's eyes were reddened, almost as though Don had been crying. That, however, was absolutely impossible. Don never cried. Charlie was relatively sure that he hadn't even cried when their mother had died. Then again, even if he considered that his memory might be sparing him the worst parts of his mother's illness, he didn't think that even then Don had ever looked so broken.

"Are you hurt? Do you need a medic?"

Only now did Charlie realize that Don had asked him a question and he shook his head. "I'm okay," he said, noticing that his own voice was a little husky as well. There was decidedly too much emotion wavering around in the atmosphere.

"Don?" they could hear a voice from downstairs, Colby's voice.

Don turned his head towards the door and cleared his throat. "I got him!" he then called back. "He's okay!"

Instead of turning his head back towards Charlie, he addressed the floor when he explained, "I should get back to the team to tell them how we're going to proceed now."

Charlie nodded, still rendered insecure by the look in Don's eyes, by the tense muscles around his jaw that showed him that he was still fighting for control.

He swallowed thickly, wondering what he should do. Don's struggling was obvious, but he knew from experience that his big brother wasn't too keen on talking about his feelings, especially not to him. Besides, this whole thing was over now, so Don would soon get back to his old self, right?

Before he'd really made up his mind, he was interrupted by the sound of quick footsteps on the stairs. "Charlie?" he heard his father's breathless voice, sounding scared.

Before he'd finished his "I'm okay," his dad was standing in the door frame and Don stood.

"I'll be back later tonight," he said in a low voice and gave Charlie's upper arm a tight squeeze before he made his way past his father to get to his team.

"What happened?" his dad asked, his fear morphing into worry. "What did those men do to you?"

"Nothing," Charlie reassured him and at the same time tried to ignore the uneasy feeling that was awakened within him as he watched Don leave to get back to the team. And while he explained his father as well as he could what had happened today and what that meant for the case and everyone's safety, he tried figuring out whether he was worrying about Don too much or too little. On the one hand, Don was a fighter, he was reliable and always had been, and now that the bad guys had ceased presenting a risk to them, he too could finally let his guard down and think of himself first for a change. On the other hand, Charlie had seen on several occasions that while his brother was brave and unwavering in the face of danger, the emotional reaction often hit him in retrospect. Besides, he'd seen it over the last couple of days how wearing these past few months had been for Don. He definitely needed a break, and Charlie knew that he should do his best to make sure that he would let himself have one. He owed that to his brother, not just considering everything Don had done for him lately, but also considering that he had been the cause for all the anguish his family had gone through. So there was no question about what he should do, but try as he might, Charlie couldn't see a way how to do that. How was he supposed to help Don when he knew that any attempt to talk to him about his problems would be rejected?

To make matters worse, Charlie was aware that opportunities to talk to Don would become a rarity in the future. Despite all the insecurity that he had seen in Don's eyes today, there was one thing that his big brother had been very clear about: Charlie was no longer part of the team, and the brothers wouldn't be working alongside ever again. He could feel a heavy lump in his stomach as it hit him fully: this case that they had solved just now by arresting the three missing terrorists, this case had been the last one he had worked together with Don. And with the case solved, the last possibility to build a close relationship with his brother was gone now, leaving him behind with a feeling of loss and emptiness.


	62. Starting Over

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1  
 **A/N:** Thanks a lot to lizaD and Jaclyn for your kind words! This chapter turned out rather long (those Eppes men just wouldn't stop talking), but I decided against splitting it up into two parts and hope you don't mind. I completely rewrote this one, so I'd be curious to learn what you think about it. We're slowly reaching the end now too, there'll be one last chapter I optimistically called "epilogue" and then that's all of it. So don't be shy, use your almost last chance to leave a review ;)

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62\. Starting Over

"You want to do _what?!_ "

Don was staring at his brother wide-eyed. They were sitting at the dining-room table, him, his dad and Charlie, and Don was starting to doubt the foundations his world was resting upon. He couldn't have been more aghast if his brother had just declared that he was about to marry the governor and then, together with him, become an Islamist and emigrate to the Middle East to join jihad. He had to have lost his mind.

He noticed the earnest expression on Charlie's face and shook his head in bewilderment. Charlie seemed to be serious. That only left him with the explanation that maybe he himself was losing his mind. That would have been no wonder given all the chaotic and upsetting events of the past few months. True, things had calmed down by now, but maybe that was exactly why his mind had chosen this moment to break down, when it wasn't needed anymore, just like you always get sick on the first day of your holiday vacation.

And Don had been feeling like on his first day on vacation for over three weeks now. They had wrapped up the case, had tied up most loose ends and were now only waiting for the court case. After the rest of the group had been arrested, the terrorists had been much more willing to cooperate, at least to a certain degree, so they had been able to take their actual statements. Now that those bureaucratic technicalities had been taken care of, what remained for them to do with respect to this case was waiting, so that by now, things had quieted down considerably. Charlie had given them his full testimony (something that hadn't passed off painlessly for either Eppes brother, even though Megan had been the one to take his statement) and they'd been able to clear up most questions that had still been unanswered. Thus, the time after the arrests had been filled with a number of small consolations, like being able to inform the family of the man whose corpse the terrorists had used to wear Charlie down, making him think it was Don. And Dexter Johnson, who'd acted as John Doe, had even come out with the identity of Anna Silversteen's murderer, a notorious hitman from Jackson, Mississippi.

Still, there were some questions that remained unanswered and it was those that left a sting when looking back at their work on the case. They still hadn't been able to expose the instigators of the CIA terrorists' actions and by now, Don had lost hope that they would ever figure out who had been the ones calling the shots. It was still possible that it was somehow the CIA's doing, even though everything pointed to private business-men at least being involved in these crimes. The identity of those and how much each participant had on his conscience, however, was something they were still in the dark about. The CIA terrorists themselves, if they even all knew who had been their employer, were still keeping quiet about where their orders had originated from, and Don couldn't even blame them. Whoever those employers were, the mere vastness of their crime had shown that they were not only ruthless, but also powerful, so powerful that the CIA terrorists seemed to have opted for a deal with them instead of cutting a deal with the FBI.

Don tried telling himself that he should be glad that they had all come out alright of this whole mess eventually and let those unanswered puzzles go since there was nothing he could do to change the situation anyway. It was easier said than done though. He'd thought he might go insane thinking that they still hadn't been able to find the men that were responsible for his brother's suffering, but eventually, he'd understood he had to content himself with directing his anger at the criminals that they had caught. After all, even though Rosenthal and his accomplices hadn't chosen their goals on their own account, it had been them that had made the decisions that concerned Charlie, so it was them that were responsible for his suffering.

Charlie himself seemed much calmer about the past events than him, or if he wasn't, he was much better at not letting on how troubled he still was than Don would have given him credit for. At any rate he had to admit that his little brother was handling his emotions much better than Don was used to, especially when he considered how Charlie had reacted to their mother's imminent death. This time, he wasn't shutting himself off, but had already started to go to sessions with a psycho-therapist, even making a comment to Don and his dad every now and then about what the two had been talking about in those sessions. Neither was he hiding away in his garage this time, even though it hadn't slipped Don's attention that he was spending a lot of time out there working. Don wasn't entirely sure what exactly it was that Charlie was working on, he only thought to have heard him mention a paper he'd started working on and at least one project at CalSci. What Don did know, however, was that whatever Charlie was working on, it was of strictly academic nature.

Or rather it had been, until now.

"You're kidding, right?" Don said, not really making the words sound like a question. His voice didn't leave any doubt as to what he thought about Charlie's announcement, namely that joking about such things was bad enough, but that he'd better not dare meaning those words like he'd said them. "I mean, you can't possibly be serious."

Until now, there had still been hope that Charlie had just been messing with them, however badly. Now, however, seeing his clenched jaw and the determined look in his eyes, this possibility was losing its credibility fast.

"And why's that?" Charlie asked, his tone belligerent and letting anger show.

Don was just as unable to hide his anger, and his hand hit the table hard. "Do I really have to spell this out for you? It's like you _want_ to get into trouble! How can you even consider accepting another job like that?"

"What's that supposed to mean, 'another job like that', there's hardly any resemblance to what happened last fall!"

Don would have laughed if the sound had managed to come out of his throat. "Are you kidding me? Let me see, it's another consulting gig –"

"Wow, now that's –"

"Which requires you to go who knows where for _two weeks_ –"

" _I_ know where I'll be going!"

"And which once again is set up to look like coming from some dubious authority!"

Charlie rolled his eyes and shouted back, "It's the Department of Defense, Don! That's about as dubious an authority as the FBI!"

"Don't you see that we're having more or less the same argument we had nine months ago? How naive can you be to still not realize that accepting another job like that would be insane?"

"Are you even listening to me? I just told you that this new consulting gig is entirely different from the last one!"

"Right, because _you_ of all people would know that!"

"What are you –" With more gratification than Don knew was appropriate, he watched his brother search for words. "Alright," he eventually said, swallowing down Don's insult, though still clenching his teeth with barely controlled anger. "Let's assume for argument's sake that I'm not able to judge for myself whether or not a job like that is legitimate, then it would still be highly unlikely that I'd fall for a trick like that twice in a row. If you just considered the statistical –"

"I don't care about your damn statistics!" Don shouted and stood, unable to remain seated any longer. "We're more than just numbers on a sheet of paper! I can't believe we're even having this conversation in the first place! There's just no way you're going to accept that job, I don't know why we're even talking about this!"

Charlie, while still on his chair, was breathing heavily. He was staring hard at the table and it looked a bit as though he might be able to ignite it. "Neither do I, because whether you like it or not, it is _my_ decision whether or not I take the job."

"Oh yeah?" Don challenged. "Just like it was your decision last time, right? Though as I recall you were still relying on _me_ to get you back when things went south!"

"Don!"

Both brothers flinched and turned around to their dad.

"Stop this, both of you," their dad reprimanded them. "I suggest you both take a break before we discuss this matter further."

"But Dad –" they both started, but Alan wouldn't let them argue.

"That's enough," he stated and stood. "You said this was something you'd like to talk to us about, Charlie, so we are going to talk about this. But we'll only do that once you two manage to behave like adults again."

With that he stood and left the room. Don and Charlie stared after him, watching the retreat of a figure that was bowed down by age.

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The familiar scent of chalk had a calming effect on him. He'd known that for quite some time now, and that was one reason why he often came out here into the garage whenever he needed to think.

It had been during the weeks following the tragedy that had disrupted his life that he had discovered the almost magical effect the garage had on him. The garage had been the place where he'd felt closest to his presumed dead son, and it had been the place where he'd found the calm he'd needed to come to terms with what had happened and to start processing his grief.

Alan took another deep breath of that scent, closing his eyes and fighting back the memories of that dreadful time that were trying to overwhelm him. On the other hand, he knew he had to face those feelings, because he knew they were a powerful argument against Charlie's proposition.

He let himself lower on the old couch, finally succumbing to the silent plea of his trembling knees. _I was offered a consulting job and I'm thinking about accepting it,_ Charlie had said, fueling the apprehension that had awakened within Alan when Charlie had told them there was something he'd like to talk with them about. And the blow hadn't been long in coming. _The thing is that I'd need to go away for that for two weeks._ Alan shook his head remembering those words. He couldn't believe that Charlie would propose something like that, especially so soon. What was he thinking? That was the question that had been on the top of his head after the initial shock had abated, leaving behind primarily confusion. However, Don's vehement protests hadn't left any opportunity to clear up any motives in this matter, neither Charlie's, nor Don's own.

He ran his hands over his face, sighing, and then stopped short. His eyes had caught a letter lying on the small table near the couch that hadn't been there on his last visit here. He could see the government's seal in the top corner and immediately knew what he was looking at. This had to be the letter explaining the job offer Charlie had been talking about, and Alan hesitated only briefly. It was his right as a father to figure out what Charlie was getting himself into, especially considering what had happened lately, or so he managed to convince himself.

He sighed again when he'd finished reading, relief tentatively dispelling his worry. It didn't sound too bad. Charlie was right, the project seemed to be sound and free of risk. True, he'd be going away for two weeks and for his own safety, the exact location wasn't noted in the letter, but would, as they said, be conveyed separately. Of course Alan was aware that it could still be a trick, but the department's concern for the participants' safety was nonetheless something to make him a little more at ease. Besides, all that Charlie would be doing was taking part in a think tank, apparently something to figure out ways how to counteract terrorism. There were the contact information of several people responsible for the project and some milestones indicating possible further meetings after the ideas developed during those two weeks would have been presented to people in the legislative branch. It actually sounded legitimate and confidence-inspiring. Still, Alan couldn't shake a sting of fear. What if something went wrong after all? And even if everything went smoothly, how was he supposed to deal with his fears until this assignment would be over?

He sighed again and laid the letter back on the table. He knew he'd be sick with worry for the entire two weeks if Charlie actually decided to take the job, but he also knew that if he really loved his son, he'd have to let him make his own choices.

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Charlie was intently staring into the water of his beloved koi pond, though not really seeing anything. He was having difficulty breathing. It had become a constant issue, he felt as though there was an iron belt tightening his chest, preventing him from breathing freely and causing him slight, yet permanent discomfort. He'd tried to distract himself from that feeling, he'd occupied his mind with work, with getting back on his feet, with spending time with his friends and family, but that pressure on his chest had never fully left.

It was worse now than before and Charlie knew why. This wasn't the first time he was experiencing that iron belt, even though he wasn't sure whether it had ever been that bad. Maybe during the last weeks of his mother's illness, when he'd been hiding from the truth in the garage instead of standing by her side. Now, just as it had done then, his guilty conscience was assailing him more forcefully than he could bear, and just like then he was desperate to find ways to escape its restricting bonds, to free himself from his inner prison and be able to breathe again.

He'd thought the think tank might be his ticket to salvation, even though he'd known all along that it would mean asking a lot from his father and brother. Now that he'd actually brought the matter up, he wished that he hadn't. It was as though the iron belt had tightened further, heating up in the process and burning him, making the oxygen he couldn't obtain an all the more badly needed good.

He could hear footsteps behind himself and closed his eyes. Judging by the sound, it was his father, and Charlie wasn't sure he'd be able to face him now. He knew he'd been egotistical. His dad and Don had been through enough during the past few months even without him bringing those painful memories back to them by embarking on another assignment away from home. He knew he shouldn't have dropped the bombshell on them like that. He'd wanted to prepare them, to explain why he thought he had to do this, but before he'd been able to, Don had shot his proposal down in flames. He still felt burning anger about that, about their inability and unwillingness to at least hear him out, yet at the same time he was aware that most part of the anger he felt was directed at himself for putting his family through this. Yet, he'd felt he didn't have another choice, not if he didn't want this single event to dictate the rest of his life.

"Charlie."

Charlie swallowed. He'd been right, it was his dad.

"What?" he all but snapped when he realized that any option was better than just ignoring him.

"I think we should talk about this," his dad said quietly and Charlie hated himself even more for being unable to exude the same calm he did.

"Why?" he asked, noticing that his voice was a little husky and becoming even more impatient with his inability to control his emotions. In an attempt to hide that, he opted for sarcasm. "I think I already have a pretty good idea of what you think about the job offer."

His father was silent for a moment. "I didn't say anything about how I feel about this", he said then.

"You don't expect me to believe that you want me to go," Charlie challenged.

"I wouldn't say that."

Charlie huffed. He'd known that his father had been only too glad that Don had voiced their joint opinion.

With a heavy sigh, his dad took a seat next to him on the bench and Charlie automatically pulled his still healing leg a bit away from him, keeping his distance. So alright, it wasn't like he was retarded, he understood that Don and his dad were against the think tank, so why couldn't his dad just drop the matter and forget that Charlie had even brought it up?

"Of course I'm not feeling at ease thinking about you leaving again so soon for a job like that," he started and Charlie sighed a bit irritated, but his dad immediately stole his thunder by adding, "I think you understand that."

He was silent for a minute, but since Charlie had no desire to say another word on that matter, he didn't interrupt his dad before he went on. "Now since I assume you're aware of how your announcement was going to make us feel, it made me wonder why you would propose such a thing in the first place. I mean, it's obvious that this job is fairly important to you, I just wasn't sure why."

Charlie pricked up his ears. Now things were getting interesting.

"Then I realized," his dad went on, "what the alternative would be. You could decline the offer. But that wouldn't solve the problem, now would it? This is more like a key question, isn't it? Should you keep on doing what you have been doing all these years, or should you turn your back on such consulting jobs forever."

Charlie tilted his head to look at him. Of course he knew that his dad was amazing, but right now he was showing an insight that was almost a little creepy. He actually seemed to understand, even though he couldn't know why this of all projects was so important to Charlie, since he didn't know the details of the case. And yet, Charlie wasn't fooled. Even though his father seemed to rationally grasp his dilemma, the concerned look in his eyes was still there. He still wasn't willing to let him go through with this, and given that he seemed to understand at least a great part of his feelings, how could Charlie still argue and try to maintain his ground?

His dad cleared his throat. "Look, Charlie, I'm not going to lie to you," he then said. "Of course I'll be worried about you, and if you decide to take the job, I think I'm entitled that you should have some consideration for that. But if you really feel so strongly about this assignment, I think that you should take it."

Charlie's eyes widened. That was the last thing he would have expected. "Are you serious?" He searched his father's eyes that were looking back at him, trying to decipher the emotions they held. There was concern there, true, but more than everything else, they bespoke a love that seemed so strong that it both tightened and loosened the iron belt around his chest. He shook his head. "How can you let me go through with this?"

His dad smiled a little sadly. "You and your brother gave me a lot of opportunities to get used to such an idea." He paused, staring thoughtfully into the water of the pond. "You know how it is with Don", he then said. "We watch him leave in the morning and always know that there's a chance he might not come home at night. This is not a lot different."

Charlie bit his lip. "But how do you do that?" he whispered.

His father looked at him earnestly. "I think you know how, Charlie. Imagine we convinced Don to quit his job." He paused. "What do you think that would do to him?"

Charlie shook his head. It was hard to even imagine that. Don was a born agent, he was good at what he did, and he loved his job. No, it was more than just a job, it almost seemed like his calling.

His dad nodded, apparently reading his thoughts. "That's what I mean. I might convince the two of you to look for a safer profession and that might keep you healthy. But it wouldn't make you happy."

Charlie felt a lump in his throat. His voice was husky when he forced himself to say, "But if it makes you so miserable –"

"Hold right there," his dad interrupted him. "I just said I wanted you two to be happy, and I don't think I'm going to see that happen if you set out your life's paths according to what you think I would want you to do. Besides..." He had to clear his throat before he could go on. "Seeing what the two of you do… Both you and your brother have an acute sense for public service, Charlie, and maybe one day when you have children of your own, you may understand how happy and proud that makes me feel."

Charlie didn't say anything to that, he couldn't have even if he'd wanted to. He just hugged his dad and took deep breaths of that familiar scent of strength, trust and love.

3-1-4-1-5-9-2-6-5-3-5-8-9-7-9-3-2-3-8-4-6

Don halted with his hand on the door handle of the garage. He took one deep breath, trying to bring some order to the emotional turmoil in his mind and failing utterly. He was still angry, mostly at Charlie that he would dare doing this to them. Now, however, after he'd had a talk with his father, he was angry with him as well, because it seemed as though his dad was supporting Charlie's stupid idea. However, almost more than angry, that talk had made him feel confused. Had they both gone insane? How could they entertain such an idea even for a minute?

 _The two of you should talk this out,_ his dad had said. And then he'd added, _I trust you'll be fair to him._ Don could still hear those words ring in his ears and they made him feel like smashing something. Why on earth should _he_ be fair to _Charlie_? It was his brother who was being unfair to them by asking them to accept his foolish undertaking! Why did things always come back to him having to be considerate of Charlie? Why couldn't it be the other way round, just once?

The hurt and disappointment those words had made him feel mingled with the anger and confusion, rendering the mixture inside him dangerously explosive. He opened the door more forcefully than he'd intended and it slipped out of his grip, banging against the wall. He saw how the sound made his brother flinch and he couldn't help but feel both sorry and satisfied at that.

"Hey," he greeted sourly when he'd closed the door behind himself, unable to think of anything else.

He saw Charlie swallow thickly before he gave him a hoarse "Hey" back.

 _Be fair to him_ , his father's words rang in his ears again, and his fist clenched. He'd be fair to him, alright, but that didn't mean he'd have to support his foolish idea, on the contrary.

He was just about to once more make his opinion clear to his younger brother when Charlie beat him to it, "I'm sorry."

It took Don a moment to understand what his brother had just said since it was pretty much the last thing he would have expected to hear him say. Still, he was almost certain he had gotten something wrong. "Come again?"

The look Charlie gave him was serious and wavering between steadiness and insecurity. "I never meant to hurt you," he said. "Or scare you. I'm sorry for that."

Don could feel his mouth hanging open and quickly closed it. What was he supposed to say to that? This wasn't the way he'd imagined this conversation to proceed. He'd mentally braced himself for another hefty argument and he had to admit to himself that in many ways he would have preferred that. Charlie seemed to be looking right through him, seeing the feelings he'd been trying to hide for so long, and it made him feel uncomfortable, exposed.

There was only one way to protect himself, and that was the counter attack. "So that means you came to your senses?"

The expression on Charlie's face was still serious, but even more than that, somehow stern, reminding him more of his father than of his little brother and rendering him even more insecure. "I mean," he started a little less offensively, but had to clear his throat before he could go on, "you're not actually serious about that assignment, right?"

Charlie was looking down now, staring hard at the wooden table that was standing there between them like a barricade. He was silent for almost a full minute before his head came up. "May I explain?" he asked with a look on his face that Don had seen so many times before. It nonetheless took him a while to place it, because he wouldn't have expected to see it now. There was some timidness in his brother's features, but more than anything else, his expression was dominated by the fierce, determined look in his eyes. Don knew that look from innumerable instances, most notably from the math explanations Charlie would give him and his team, especially from presentations where there had been other agents around, people who hadn't been made believers of the powers of math yet. It was a look telling everyone caring to interpret it that it was of no use trying to stop Charlie, because he knew that he was right, even though he also knew that it would take him some time and energy to convince other people of that.

So what was that look doing on Charlie's face now, when they both knew he couldn't be more wrong about wanting to go on that assignment?

"Alright," Don said, driven by curiosity. "I'm listening."

Charlie nodded and went back to staring at the desk, apparently choosing his words with care. "I know that accepting the assignment would be asking a lot of you," he started. "And I've been agonizing a lot over whether I could even bring this matter up, believe me. And I wouldn't have if I hadn't been convinced that I needed this to get my life back."

Don shook his head. "But that's what I don't get. Why would you need to go on another assignment? You don't have to prove anything to anyone –"

"You don't understand," Charlie interrupted him, impatience showing through in his words, and Don bit his lip to prevent himself from continuing the interruption game and provoke another quarrel. _Be fair to him._

"This isn't about proving anything. It's… it's more about making amends."

Don frowned. Sometime during the past minute, he'd gone lost. "Amends for what?"

"You know what the assignment's about?" Charlie answered with a question of his own, his tone almost conversational. But before Don had even time to reply, he gave the answer himself, "It's about counter terrorism."

"Charlie –" Don started to argue, exasperated, but Charlie wouldn't let him.

"They're assembling a think tank to try and find ways to stabilize the situation in countries where many Islamist terrorists originate from nowadays, to prevent the growth and spread of terrorist cells. We'll be trying to find ways to remedy the causes that make people become terrorists in the first place."

Don was shaking his head. He didn't understand this world anymore. "Why are you doing this to yourself?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper. "Don't you see that this will just make the trauma of the past year come back?"

From under raised eye-brows, Charlie gave him an indecipherable look, and if it hadn't been for the bitter tone, his voice would have been almost playful when he said, "What do you mean, 'come back'?"

Don opened his mouth, dismayed, but didn't find anything to say.

"I can't change what happened, Don," Charlie said. "All that I _can_ control is how I deal with what happened. Now I guess one way would be waiting for this 'trauma' to just go away and hope that it won't 'come back', but I think we both know that's not going to work."

"I didn't mean it that way," Don managed, suddenly feeling small beside his brother.

"I know," Charlie replied placably. "It's not like I hadn't thought about that, too. As I said, I've been thinking a lot about this." He cleared his throat. "So anyway. The only option that seems to be left is finding a way to deal with what happened, and that also means finding a way to deal with the guilt."

The frown was back on Don's face. "What are you talking about? What guilt?"

Now it was Charlie's mouth that was hanging open. "You're kidding, right?" he asked in so low a voice that Don had to strain his ears. When Don remained silent, he went on, his voice breaking just a little. "You know what I did. I was part of a group that launched terrorist attacks. People have died in those attacks."

Don shook his head. Charlie couldn't really be meaning that, right? How could he blame himself for that? And even worse, how could it be that up to this point, Don had had no idea about how Charlie felt about his involvement in the group's activities? True, upon hearing what Charlie's role had been, Don had been preoccupied about how his idealistic little brother might handle this, but when the topic had never come up, he'd been convinced that Charlie had realized that he hadn't intentionally harmed those people, that on the contrary, his intentions had been good ones and that therefore, he wasn't responsible for the bad deeds to which the CIA terrorists had twisted his work. How could he not see that?

"Buddy – that's not your fault. You couldn't know –"

"I _should_ have known," Charlie interrupted him, again. "I was working with these people, Don, I talked to them, I listened to what they were asking of me. I should have realized right from the start that their primary goal was making Saudi Arabia an ally, no matter the cost. Of course I didn't intentionally help commit those attacks, but the fact is that I did."

Don wouldn't accept his reasoning. "But even if you hadn't helped them, they would have found other ways to –"

"I don't care, Don!" Charlie once again interrupted him and Don had the impression that his brother's calm was thinning out. "It doesn't matter what would have happened if I hadn't been involved, for the fact is that I _was_ involved, and I can't change that back now. All that I can do is try making amends of some sort, and that's what I'm planning to do."

Don was silent for a while. He was seeing Charlie's plan in a whole different light now. However, the idea still wasn't to his liking, and now that he knew his brother's reasons, he should be able to convince him to let go of his plan.

Eventually, he said, "Okay. Now can I talk? Without you interrupting me?"

With a slight tilt of his head, his brother indicated yes.

"Alright," Don started, thinking feverishly how to make his argument so that it might convince his logic trained genius brother. It was a good thing he'd had almost his entire life to practice. "So simply given what you just told me, isn't it then completely illogical to risk falling for a trap like that again? I mean, it _could_ _be_ that your new employers aren't as above-board as you hope them to be, so instead of being the solution you've been seeking, you could dig an even deeper hole for yourself by accepting this job."

Charlie was intently looking at the table and going by his earnest expression, Don felt hopeful that his words had hit their mark. He was soon disillusioned, though.

"I've thought about that," Charlie remarked and hesitated before he went on. When he did, Don felt shudders run down his spine, evoked by the earnestness his brother was emanating. "I don't know if you realize how hard these past few months have been for me, Don. I learned a lot of things, mostly about myself and other people, and I had to make a lot of choices – and you know how hard it's always been for me to make choices, especially big ones like that. You see, in some regards I'm still trying to figure out who I really am. But I… Well, I'm trying, and I'm trying to do a little better every day. And I just..." He bit his lip and started anew. "When they asked me to join the think tank, I was faced with two options. I could turn it down, or I could accept. And when I realized that whatever I chose would become a vital part of who I am, seeing how I'm currently reconstructing myself every day… Well, I just couldn't stand the idea of choosing fear, so I chose trust instead."

It took Don a while before he started breathing again, having been unaware in the first place that he'd held his breath. Just like he had been unaware of how much these past events were weighing upon his brother. Sure, he'd expected him to struggle with the situation, in his head he'd used labels like 'nightmares', 'anxiety' and 'PTSD' to describe his state. However, he hadn't thought about how much this would shake his personality.

When he thought he'd found his voice again, he tried to argue. "Still," he started, but had to clear his throat before he could go on. "Still, I don't see how this is rational. I mean, don't get me wrong, I don't want you to choose fear. But I think there's a big difference between fear and blindly trusting your new employers."

Charlie gave him a look that Don felt to the bone. "It's not my employers I decided to trust, Don," he said quietly. "I decided to trust myself."

Don swallowed thickly. He was still deeply affected by his brother's earnestness, yet he wasn't sure what exactly it was he was trying to tell him, and he needed to understand, he wanted to understand him so badly, but he was afraid to say these words. "I don't understand." And now they were out.

He would have liked to bite his tongue. He watched his brother tear up and the sight almost broke his heart. If he could have done anything to take his words back, he would have, but it was too late now.

He waited, scared of saying another word, watching his brother wipe his eyes and clear his throat, collect himself. "You were right, you know," Charlie said after a moment, his voice still trembling, but making an obvious effort to regain control over his emotions. Don had no idea what he was talking about, but the hell he was going to say that. "Last September, when I told you about the assignment. You were right not trusting those guys, and I was wrong. And now I..." He had to wipe his eyes again to prevent the tears from spilling. "I've been wondering whether maybe I just couldn't do it. Maybe I just can't make the right decisions for myself." His voice was almost gone and he had to clear his throat before he was able to go on. "You know, I've always looked up to you for orientation. And then the one time I go against you, I go so horribly wrong..." He took a moment to collect himself, then took a deep breath. "Anyway. I decided to give myself another chance. I did all the research I could think of, I weighed all the pros and cons against each other, and I made my decision. And now I… I want to trust myself that I have made the right one."

Don was afraid to breathe. It felt as though his heart had shattered, and now the tiniest movement would make it crumble to pieces. He was desperately searching for something to say, to make Charlie feel better, but his mind was empty.

"I was serious earlier," Charlie went on before Don had found something, his voice a bit stronger now. "I want to discuss this with you, and despite everything I just said, I won't accept the assignment if you don't want me to."

A sound escaped Don's throat, sounding a lot like hysterical laughter. "What do you expect me to say, Charlie? I mean, how can I say anything to keep you from going _now_?"

Charlie cast down his eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to somehow emotionally blackmail you," he started, but Don cut him off.

"I know," he said, wondering if he would ever manage to say something without hurting his brother's feelings. "Look, you were wrong," he tried and the next instant would have liked once again to bite his tongue off. Maybe he should just swallow it whole, for everyone's sake. But before Charlie could get the wrong idea, he quickly went on, "About that inability to make decisions I mean. I think you're forgetting that you have made a lot of decisions in the past that I had no say in and that have turned out pretty well. Like buying this house, for example. And neither should you forget that a lot of the decisions I have made have turned out rather badly. I guess that's just what makes us human, you know? We try every day to make the right decision, some of them are good, some are bad. We just have to try our best."

Charlie looked at him at that and he felt a little like he was being X-rayed. "But you still think taking the assignment would be a bad decision for me."

Don was silent, thinking hard. "I don't know, buddy." He saw disappointment cross his brother's face and hurried to go on, "I'm being honest with you, I really don't know. I know I don't like the idea, but that has nothing to do with whether your decision is good or bad. It's just..." He hesitated, but since Charlie had been so open with him, he thought he owed him the reciprocal treatment. "It's just that I'm scared that something like last fall might happen again. But…" Once again he fell silent, warring with himself over saying it, but then finding it was the truth. "I trust you, Charlie. If you say you're taking every precaution that something like that won't happen again this time, then I believe you and I… I think I get it now. I think it might really be a good idea for you to go."

"Thank you." Charlie's voice was quiet, but that didn't lessen his sincerity at all. "I'm aware it wasn't fair asking you."

That made a crooked smile appear on Don's lips. "Life is rarely fair, Charlie. But I think it's still worth it, don't you?"

A laugh escaped his brother's throat, fusing the shards in his chest, making him whole again. "Oh yes, it's definitely worth it."


	63. Epilogue

**Disclaimer:** see chapter 1  
 **A/N:** So this is it! After more than a year, we've reached the end of this journey. I hope you enjoyed it and I'd like to say a big THANK YOU to everyone who embarked on this trip and made it through until the end. A special thanks to those who showed their appreciation for this story by leaving a review, each and every one of these made me very happy!  
So now, I hope you'll find the last stage of this ride satisfying. Please lean back and enjoy :)

* * *

Epilogue

Don inhaled deeply when he got out of the car. Yeah, _this_ was fresh air. He could get used to that.

"That's different from the gas cocktail we get at home, don't you think?"

Charlie, on the other side of the car, just made an affirmative "uh huh" without commenting further on that. Don eyed him thoughtfully and restrained himself from nervously moistening his lips. Charlie had become more and more taciturn the closer they had gotten to the national park and Don had soon become filled with the nagging suspicion that he'd made a mistake. Of course he'd been aware that this trip might evoke some bad memories, he just hadn't thought he'd be having such a hard time seeing Charlie struggle with that. And he definitely hadn't anticipated he'd be such a dead loss at trying to make this easier for his little brother.

When about a week after their fight and reconciliation he'd asked Charlie whether he thought he'd be able to find his way back to the terrorists' former hiding place, he'd answered the question with an insecure 'maybe'. That had been enough for Don though, enough to justify the 14 hour drive up here to go out on a limb and try to find the dugout by reverse-engineering Charlie's steps. So now, almost seven weeks after Charlie's escape from the dugout, they were back here in the park. True, officially the case was closed and they had enough evidence to bring the CIA terrorists behind bars, but given that the terrorists' leaving of their hiding-place had been a relatively sudden one, there was a chance that in that dugout, they would still find further evidence that might be of some relevance in the court case, or maybe even information that might lead them to the instigators of their crimes.

Don was secretly glad that they had no official business searching the park once more, for he was aware that this would have put a much greater pressure on his brother. This way, their search was hardly more than a whim, it didn't matter whether or not they would find the dugout, and even if they didn't, this trip was still worth it, for it provided Don with a reason to spend some time alone with his brother. After everything that had happened, he'd thought he deserved this time out with him.

Now however, seeing the earnest expression on Charlie's face, Don was wondering if maybe his plans had been tinted too much by egotistical deliberations. Had he pushed Charlie too hard into going with him when his brother wasn't ready to face his trauma in this admittedly drastic manner?

"Hey buddy… everything alright?"

It seemed as though Charlie had to come up from a deep sea of memories before he looked at him and answered, "Yeah, sure." He was smiling now, but he still seemed to be somewhere else with his thoughts, which made the smile seem less than genuine.

Don felt his heart contract. "Look, we don't have to do this. If this is getting too much for you, we can go back right away, that's not a problem," he offered.

"Don't be absurd. We didn't drive all the way up here for nothing."

Don remained firm. "I mean it. You don't have to do this if you don't want to. Nobody's putting pressure on you here."

Charlie huffed. "Stop being silly," he then mumbled and set off towards the trail, leaving Don hurrying after him to keep up.

* * *

"This is it," Don said when two and a half hours later, they arrived at the first pi. They had left the official trails leading through the park long ago and Don was very glad about the little GPS device in his hands. Otherwise, they would have had a much harder time finding this spot.

"So this is were you started the search?" Charlie made sure.

Don nodded. "Yeah, and it led us this way," he added, pointing towards the forest to their right.

"It's the fourth or fifth π I've made," Charlie mumbled and took a closer look at the stone with the numbers. "The fourth one," he then said with conviction. "With the fifth one, I used a different vector. Could also be the third..." He shook his head and his conviction was back, "It's the fourth one."

Don knew he shouldn't be surprised that Charlie was reading those hieroglyphics like a map – after all, he'd been the one to write them down – but he still couldn't help but feel some fascination watching him.

"Alright, so where are we going to find the first three pis?"

Charlie straightened himself and seemed to have lost his conviction somewhere on the ground. "I'm not sure," he admitted, letting his gaze wander across the landscape. Suddenly, he seemed nervous and insecure. "I think… I think I may have come from over there," he said eventually, pointing past Don's right side.

Don half turned around, thinking that the direction seemed plausible enough if only his brother hadn't displayed such a high level of insecurity. "Are you sure?"

He saw him swallow. "No, I'm… Maybe I came from over there." Now he was pointing past Don's left side and started shaking his head. "I'm sorry, I didn't think it'd be so hard going backwards –"

"Hey, it's okay, buddy," Don interrupted him, remembering with a sick feeling in his stomach the self-doubts Charlie had voiced only few weeks earlier. "You're doing great, alright? Let's just start out in the direction that you think is most likely and if you find it's the wrong way after all, we can still come back here and take the other direction. Alright?"

Charlie swallowed again and nodded. He passed Don to lead the way, accepting the arm he put around his shoulders as they silently continued their way through the park.

* * *

Few minutes later, they turned around to choose the other way instead and here, it hadn't taken long for Charlie to remember his surroundings. And then, only about two hours later, they had found Charlie's third pi sign.

In the meanwhile, Don had managed to elicit a few words from his brother, but only after having found the third pi did he seem to warm up and they managed to have a real conversation. Granted, they were still avoiding any serious topics, but still, Don felt good with it. It felt good to just spend time with his brother, and it felt even better every time it hit Don that there had been a period in his life when he'd thought he'd never be able to do this again.

The relaxed atmosphere lasted only about an hour, though. The closer they got to Charlie's second pi, the more taciturn he became and Don felt his guilty conscience awaken again. For now, however, he managed to convince himself that maybe Charlie was just getting tired or that maybe he just wasn't in the mood for talking. There was no reason to worry, surely.

"Hey, isn't that it, over there?" he asked when through the trees, he could see parts of a stone sign on a small woodless hill. Without waiting for an answer, he hurried to get to it. Who would have thought this could really work? Charlie had actually remembered the way back up to this second pi, now all that remained for them was to find the first pi and then the dugout, they were already halfway there, this could actually work!

"I found the stone!" he informed his brother who, in contrast to him, hadn't accelerated his steps. He was eyeing the symbols curiously, though careful not to move anything. "You coming?" he called over his shoulder when he still didn't hear Charlie approach. His brother really didn't show any inclination to hurry up, which was almost funny considering that it was normally Charlie who could get excited about everything and Don who never lost his calm.

With a twinge of impatience, Don turned around to see what was taking Charlie so long and immediately felt his heart contract. Now he could see what was keeping him: Charlie was limping.

As he stood, he could feel a lump form in his stomach just to immediately rise up to his throat. How could he have missed that Charlie was obviously in pain? And why hadn't Charlie said something? And what was wrong with him? Had he hurt himself without Don noticing a thing, or was his broken leg making itself noticed? Don had thought it had healed, but maybe it was still too weak for a slog like this one that he'd talked him into? Whatever the reason for his limping though, the bad thing was that somehow, neither possibility seemed very uplifting.

"What's wrong?" he asked worriedly and with a few quick steps closed the gap between them. He almost shrank back when he laid his hand on Charlie's shoulder for support. This close, he couldn't miss the tiny tremors of pain or maybe fatigue that went through his brother's body. Tremors he had apparently been missing for some time now.

"Nothing," Charlie replied. "You found the stone with the vector?"

"What? Yeah." Don had almost forgotten about that. There were more pressing questions on his mind. "What's wrong with your leg? Are you hurt?"

Charlie shook his head. "I'm fine." He took a glance around, then at the pi, then at the landscape again. "We have to go there," he then said, pointing to Don's left, and started heading off in that direction.

Don held him back at his arm, trying to get a good look at Charlie's face. The lines of pain he could see there didn't leave any doubt as to what he needed to do. "We should get some rest before going on," he said with a deliberately firm tone in his voice.

"What? No, there's no reason for that. If we're lucky and I don't lead us astray again, we should be able to reach the next pi before it gets dark. We could even try going further and find the way to the dugout, after all, it was also dark when I walked that way last time."

Don stared at him as if he might detect any outward signs that Charlie had lost his mind. "Are you listening to yourself? Come on, Charlie, you can hardly stand upright, how are you going to walk through this terrain for another couple of hours?"

His brother was silent, clenching his jaw, but his stubbornness wasn't going to help him, not this time. "Look, this is a perfect spot to pitch up our tent," Don tried using reasons to convince him. "After all, you shouldn't forget that after we find the dugout, we still need to get back to the car. Even though the direct route back will be much shorter than getting there, it'll probably still be a couple of hours of hiking. And I'm not planning on carrying you, so you better make sure that your leg stays fully functional until we get back to civilization, alright?"

Charlie cast down his eyes and mumbled a hardly discernible 'alright'. Don had a hard time staying firm seeing the unhappy expression on his brother's face. Seeing the lines of pain, however, made his decision irrevocable.

"Come on," he tried to lighten the mood as he took off his backpack, "it's not like we're in a hurry, are we?"

"No," Charlie sighed, yielding up to his fate, and put his backpack down as well.

"If your leg is better tomorrow, we should be able to get to the dugout and maybe even back to the car all within one day. There's no reason why we shouldn't split up the distance more evenly on these two days, and if it's still too much tomorrow, our provisions should be enough for a third or maybe even a fourth day," Don continued arguing, still feeling the need to make his brother feel better.

Not that it was working very well. "That only holds if we don't take too long finding the way. If I –"

"If we don't," Don interrupted him before he could bring himself down further by his self-doubts, "we just go back. We don't have to find the dugout, Charlie. It would be nice, but those terrorists aren't going to walk even if we don't."

Charlie stayed silent, not looking convinced. Don wasn't sure whether he should just drop the matter before he made things even worse or just change the topic, but his thoughts had a direction of their own and eventually, they just morphed into words that tumbled out of his mouth on their own account. "So then Monday, you're going to go away on that assignment, right?"

Charlie eyed him and the mistrust was evident in his eyes. "Yeah, I am. And we've been over this, Don. You agreed –"

"I know," Don interrupted him, holding up his hands in a placating manner. "I know. But don't forget that _you_ agreed on… well, on putting up with Dad and me in case we'd get a little… overprotective."

He felt uncomfortable under Charlie's scrutinizing stare. "You know you're not responsible for me, right?"

Don felt the blood rising to his head. Since not only Bradford, but also Charlie and his dad and even his team had been trying for weeks to assure him that he wasn't to blame for what his brother had gone through, to convince him that nothing of what had happened had been his fault and that Charlie was his own man, he hardly had a chance to doubt that anymore. "I can still be worried, don't I?"

Charlie grimaced, apparently attempting a smile. "Right, of course. I'm sorry. But you know it's not the way it has been last time. You know who my persons of contact are and everything. And I'll make sure to call you daily."

Don nodded, but didn't look at him when he said, "Good."

He stood to unpack the tent. While they were putting it up, he avoided making eye contact with his brother. He knew that he'd given his blessing to the assignment and even though he couldn't ban the queasy feeling from his stomach whenever he thought about it, he was aware that rationally, Charlie had made the right decision. He just was still having a hard time getting accustomed to the idea of having to see him leave again and having to live through all those memories that were still stinging so painfully.

However, even worse than his worry was the fact that he couldn't stop pondering over his decision of kicking Charlie off the team. When he'd made that decision, he'd been so convinced that it would be the best solution for them both because he just couldn't endanger Charlie like that. Now however… It just didn't make a whole lot of sense anymore. If he was so concerned for Charlie's safety, then how could he let him go through with this assignment when he didn't even have a chance to watch out for him during that? And on the other hand, given that Charlie had decided he wouldn't stop accepting jobs like those, then why should Don keep up that restraint on FBI cases? There was a risk with every job that Charlie accepted, and with every job there were also certain possibilities to minimize that risk for him.

And yet, Don was torn. He knew that if something happened to Charlie while working for his team, even if his brother came out of it alright, he would have a hard time dealing with that and he would blame himself for putting him at risk, and he wasn't sure whether he'd be able to live with that. On the other hand, these past few weeks had been difficult. Even when Charlie had been back home recuperating, even when he had taken up his old life again, there had still been moments on the job when to Don, it had felt the way it had in those months when he'd thought he'd lost Charlie. For when he was on the job, nothing had changed: Charlie's absence was still a daily, painful reminder of the ordeal they had all gone through. With every new case, with every new problem that arose, Don was put back to thinking that Charlie might have helped them out, and every time the thought occurred, he could sense the restraint his team members were putting on themselves, he could see in the looks they gave each other what they were thinking: that things would have been so much easier with Charlie's help. They never said it, but their silence about the matter was just another painful similarity to the time when they'd all thought him to be dead.

Don closed his eyes as he put the last peg into the ground and sighed, but the bad feeling remained. Having Charlie removed from the team seemed to be one of those decisions he'd been talking about to his brother in the garage few weeks ago, a decision where despite Charlie's high opinion of his skills in mastering life, he had gone horribly wrong.

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When the tent was standing, Charlie carefully let himself sink on the ground before it. His leg was still throbbing, but he was confident it should be as good as new tomorrow if he only rested it for the remainder of the day. It had better be, otherwise they'd never reach the dugout and this whole endeavor would have been one giant waste, all because of him.

He sighed, exasperated with himself, and lay down on his back, his hands clasped behind his head, staring up into the cloudless sky. He'd thought he'd be able to do this. His leg had been steadily getting better. Granted, until a couple of days ago he'd still felt the effects of the fracture when he moved around too much, just like he was doing now, but he hadn't thought it would still encumber him so much. He hadn't anticipated this betrayal of his body. To tell the truth, he'd been much more worried about his mental state, and this miscalculation made him even more irritable with himself, because it seemed as though he was still unable to judge which situations were problematic for him and which weren't. He'd been convinced he'd be having a much harder time re-visiting the park. True, the night was still about to come, as was the actual return to the dugout, but his apprehension that being back here would render him so paralyzed by fear that he wouldn't be able to make another step forward had been far from the truth. He assumed that Don's presence was somehow responsible for that. He couldn't help it, he felt safe around him, and the danger he'd been in last time in this park seemed so far away as if it had been the mere product of a screenwriter's imagination.

He tentatively turned his head to get a look at his brother. At bottom, he could really be lucky to have him. Don had been there whenever he'd needed him, he was watching out for him and keeping him safe with a naturalness that even made Charlie feel a little ashamed. Don shouldn't have to do this. He shouldn't have to look after his little brother, he should be able to just lead his own life. Granted, during the last couple of weeks he'd more and more often 'taken some time off', so-to-speak, spending the evening with Robin, but that had usually been when Charlie himself had spent the evening with Amita anyway. Even so, he was seeing much more of his brother than he had before his assignment last fall, and he was wondering how much longer that would hold. He knew Don; sooner or later he would try to find a place of his own again, and then his visits would become less and less often, so he should probably enjoy this time while it was lasting.

Just as he should be trying to enjoy the time together on this trip. Don had even taken a couple of days off to make that possible, which was a powerful indicator for how important finding that dugout was to him. The thought made Charlie feel a little anxious. To him and their dad, Don had been acting as though the case was closed and there was nothing more for him and the team to be done. The fact that he would drive up here with Charlie to try and find the terrorists' former hiding-place was telling an entirely different story though. True, Don wasn't officially on the job right now, but what difference did that make? Don was _always_ on the job, in effect, especially with this case. If he even took some days off, that meant that finding that dugout had to be really important. And yet, towards Charlie he was still acting as though it was no big deal whether or not they would find it, he was still keeping things from him and trying to deal with everything alone, and Charlie had to admit he was tired of it. Ever since he'd returned home from the clinic, Don had been walking on eggshells around him and trying his best to keep him out of the loop because he thought his little brother couldn't deal with any bad news he might throw at him. And Charlie couldn't help it, he was hurt. After everything he'd been through, after fighting his way back into his old life, shouldn't he have earned a little more trust from his brother? Why was Don still thinking he had to sugarcoat the truth for him? Why was he still seeing him as unstable, as someone that couldn't be taken seriously?

As disappointed as Charlie was about this lack of trust, however, he still couldn't really be angry with his big brother. Don had always been there for him and to be fair to him, Charlie was aware that he was just acting this way because he was worried about him. He'd been doing a damn lot of things lately just because he'd been worried about him, because he always felt it was his responsibility to keep the family together, so Charlie should probably be a little more understanding if Don overdid it from time to time.

A queasy feeling was starting to spread in his stomach. Maybe he'd been a little too understanding about Don's bustling around him, for it hadn't eluded his attention that this case and everything it had entailed had been weighing hard on his brother, so hard that Charlie had become quite concerned about him. He'd thought that everything would come out alright now that the case was supposedly closed, but now that it looked as though the team or at least Don was still working on it… He really wasn't sure how his brother was handling this. True, he was looking more rested these days, but also before the terrorists had been caught, Don had seemed okay most times – and yet, there had been those instances when his facade had broken open and exposed the destruction underneath.

Also now that Don thought he was unobserved, he seemed to be brooding. He'd been silent for some time now and even in profile, his face was showing a serious expression that was very thoughtful, maybe even a little sad.

Charlie swallowed. He didn't like what he saw and he knew that it was time to reverse the roles and be there for him for a change. He'd been meaning to do that for weeks now, but had never found an opportunity to start a conversation like this one. Most times when he'd seen Don during the past few weeks, their dad had been there, too, and while it was improbable for Don to open up about his feelings to begin with, Charlie knew that it was absolutely impossible for that to happen when his big brother felt that he was being outnumbered. And in those instances when their dad hadn't been around, when it had only been the two of them… well, it had just been too weird.

"Don?"

The moment the word came out of his mouth, Charlie wished he could take it back, just swallow it up and bury it inside himself. This was a mistake. Don wouldn't open up to him; to Don, he was still nothing more than his geeky, annoying little brother, and Charlie wasn't sure he'd be able to take his rejection now.

"Yeah?" Don asked and Charlie wondered feverishly what he should do. True, he didn't want to feel rejected, but wasn't it somehow his duty to try giving his brother something back after everything he'd done for him? And duty or no duty – judging from what Charlie had seen over the past few weeks, Don wasn't well, and he just couldn't stand the idea of that.

"What's wrong?" Don pressed while Charlie was still warring with himself. He was sitting up now and a tone of alarm had entered his voice. "Something with your leg?"

Charlie closed his eyes. Would Don never stop worrying about him? "No, the leg's fine," he said, impatient to get this over with now that he'd made his decision. "It's just..." He paused to get up on his elbows, then swallowed thickly and finally said it, "Are you okay?"

Don gave him a look full of incomprehension and Charlie would have liked for the ground to swallow him up whole.

"Of course I'm okay," Don said, still acting as though Charlie had asked him whether the sky was blue. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Charlie, in an attempt to buy time, sat up fully. Then he swallowed again; his mouth seemed suddenly very dry. "It's just that… You seemed a little… off lately."

Don was frowning now, his face hardening ever so slightly. The look of worry disappeared from his face, but there was no other emotion to take its place, save maybe a touch of irritation. "What do you mean?" Also his tone was mistrustful, almost hostile.

"It's just… Ever since you tried finding the three remaining terrorists, you seemed very on edge, and at the same time… at the same time you were extremely quiet and would hardly talk to anybody. And then when you arrested them, at the house..." Charlie hesitated. In his memory, he could see the look on Don's face again, his red-rimmed eyes, and struggled to come up with the right words. "You seemed unusually… emotional," he finally settled for.

The expression on Don's face was still hard and now he didn't even look at him anymore, which weren't good signs for the conversation Charlie was aiming for. The cynicism in his voice made the effect even worse. "I thought I'd lost you, so yeah, I'm terribly sorry if I showed some emotion."

Charlie winced. "I didn't mean it like that," he said, his voice quiet and just a little trembling. Why did Don always feel the need to hide his emotions, to think that showing them was somehow shameful? Why did he always feel the need to justify them?

And that justification… Charlie doubted that this was really all that was to it. It sounded a little too generic, and apart from that, if Don had only been afraid for him, then why was he acting so strangely now?

"Still, it's okay now," he started, noticing with some annoyance that his voice had become a little hoarse. "I mean, you don't have any reason to worry about me now, but still you're… You're doing it again, you're brooding over something and don't let anyone in, you're getting taciturn and obsessed with the case while you keep telling Dad and me that it's over."

"What do you want me to say? I told you the case was closed, and it is."

"Then what are we doing here?"

Now, Don's facade was starting to crumble and Charlie thought he'd actually thrown him, something he wouldn't have considered possible. "It's just..." Don started and Charlie could practically see the wheels turn behind his forehead. "I thought that we might find something in that dugout that could prove useful in the court case." He saw him swallow, which at least with normal people was a sign for hiding something. "And I thought maybe it'd be good for you, too, you know, to get some closure and all that."

"Right," Charlie said quietly. He was scrutinizing him, trying to decipher the look on his face, to read in his eyes whether that was really all there was to this trip. Don soon ended the attempt by averting his eyes again.

When Charlie was almost certain that his brother had decided to drop the matter, Don cleared his throat. "Look, you're wrong. I mean, I guess this whole thing really got to me, but it's over now and the important thing is that we all came out of it alright. So yeah, I'm okay."

Charlie frowned. True, it was always hard to read Don's emotions, but this was different. Don seemed to be actually opening up to him, for Charlie could have sworn he was telling him the truth.

Still didn't explain his behavior, though. Something was up, it just wasn't the case, which made it even more unlikely that Don would talk to him about whatever was preying on his mind.

"So you don't want to tell me what's wrong?"

Don sighed and ran his hands over his face. He was silent for a minute, but then he did what Charlie wouldn't have considered possible: he opened up to him. "It's just that I've been wondering… I mean, maybe you could come back working with us."

Charlie frowned. Of all the things he would have expected his brother to say, this wouldn't even have made the list. And he didn't understand. Why would Don ask him that? "So you do have a problem with a case."

Even before the words were out, Charlie knew they didn't make sense. If Don was having problems with a case, then why would he take some time off? Unless… maybe he'd been suspended and hadn't told them? But he couldn't have known he'd be suspended when he proposed to Charlie going on this trip. All this didn't make any sense.

Don was shaking his head. "I don't have any prob-"

"Then why would you ask me that?" Charlie interrupted him. He noticed that he was getting upset, but he couldn't help it. They'd been over this, so why would Don bring up that painful topic again?

"I… I don't know." Don was actually stammering a little. "I just thought… I mean, since you decided to accept that assignment for the DoD..."

"What is this?" Alright, so he _was_ upset now. Couldn't stop it, though. "You said you'd be okay with me going on that assignment! But now that I'm about to leave, you're trying to entice me away or what?"

Don, too, was slowly losing his calm. "This has nothing to do with your assignment –"

"You just said so yourself!"

"But not the way you think! I just thought that if you decided to take on other consulting jobs, then why shouldn't you come back to the team as well!"

Charlie was shaking his head. He didn't understand the world anymore and the confusion was adding to his pain. "Don, you've been very clear about not wanting to work with me again, so if you don't have a good reason for asking me to come back, then I'm sorry, but the answer is no."

Don seemed almost as confused and hurt as Charlie was feeling. "But I… I thought you _wanted_ to come back working with us."

"I did want to work with you, yeah," Charlie said, his voice trembling just a little. "But I don't want to get used by you again."

He had to avert his eyes upon seeing the shocked look on Don's face. This couldn't really be news to Don though, right? Or had his brother actually not understood what he had been doing to him?

"I never..." Don started, but had to try again. "I'd thought you liked… I'd thought you'd tell me when you felt that I… I never knew you felt this way, buddy, I swear. You should have told me, I would have –"

"I didn't feel used while I was working with you," Charlie interrupted him when he thought he had regained his ability to utter complete sentences. Yet, he was still struggling to control his emotions. "I only felt that way afterwards." He swallowed, remembering the rejection he'd felt that night when Don had thrown him off the team.

"I don't understand." His brother's voice was low and soft, almost a whisper.

Charlie cleared his throat, trying to bring his emotions in some kind of order so that his brother would be able to follow. "The way I'm seeing it, working with you would have meant some kind of equality," he stated, trying his best to keep his tone firm and sober. "For instance, it would have meant that if one of us found that there was a problem somewhere, we would try fixing it together. Instead, when you were worried I wouldn't function as well as before, you just kicked me off the team, and frankly, I don't know if I can take that again."

"What are you talking about?" Charlie looked up at that tone and was faced with the incredulous, dismayed look on his brother's face. "You think _that's_ why I decided we had to stop this, because I'd be concerned about you _functioning_?"

"Why else?"

Don's mouth was hanging open. "Because I was _worried_ about you! Is that so hard to understand?"

Charlie frowned, unsure what to think about this. "Actually, yeah. I mean, it doesn't make any sense. We're talking about a consulting job here, what should happen to me during that?"

Don was staring at him wide-eyed, the incredulous look still there. "Right," he said, sarcasm detectable underneath his consternation. "Consulting jobs don't present any risks at all, just like the one you accepted last fall."

"That was an anomaly!" Charlie argued. "So yeah, maybe I should have mentioned that I don't expect you to hold me against my will!"

He'd effectively rendered his big brother speechless, even though he wasn't sure whether Don was merely angry with him or whether he'd actually scored a hit. "Look," he went on and decided to keep the sarcasm out of his voice from now on. Who knew, as long as all of nature's laws weren't discovered, there was still a chance that his words might hurt his big brother. "Consulting for you is about as dangerous as any other job."

Don gave him a look full of doubt. "You're telling me people in the academic world get attacked often?"

Charlie shrugged. "More often than you'd think. At least when their work has some impact on real life, and I don't think you want to keep me from doing that."

"Of course not."

"Then I don't see why concerns for my safety should prevent me from working with you. I'm not in the field, at least most times, and I'm not away from home in some top-secret no-man's-land. I'm just doing math, like I always do."

Don sighed, maintaining his silence until he'd put his thoughts in order. "Look," he said then, "I didn't say it was rational. It's just… When we thought you were dead, I had a really hard time coping with that. And then when you came back, it was just so difficult seeing you struggle and learning about what you've been through, and then with Rosenthal coming back and everything… I just couldn't stand the idea of anything happening to you again."

Alright, this was something he could work with. They were working with arguments now, he could do that, that was logic, in effect. Although Charlie had to admit that applying logic to this problem would have been a lot easier if there hadn't been so many emotions floating around in the atmosphere.

"Okay," he said, assuming his teacher tone, "so I can see why you'd be upset when you'd thought I had died, and I'm aware that whole closure thing couldn't work that well given that I came back. But especially since I came back, I don't understand why you'd still be struggling with that. I mean, tragedies can always occur, and it's always sad when someone dies, but that usually doesn't change the way we lead our lives. For example, remember when that agent from your office died in the field, two years ago? Also then, you had a hard time dealing with the loss, but after a while you had coped with it and all the while I don't think you ever even considered choosing a less risky job for yourself, or convincing your team members to leave the office out of concern for their safety."

Don stared at him as though he'd grown a second head. His voice was quiet when he replied, "You know, for a genius, you can be a real idiot sometimes."

Charlie wasn't sure he'd heard right. "What?"

"You're not actually trying to compare your death to the death of a fellow agent?"

Charlie's mouth was moving, but no words were coming out. Good. He had the distinct feeling that whatever he said, he could only make matters worse at this point.

Judging by the look on Don's face, Charlie's second head was still there. "Has it never occurred to you that maybe I'd care more about someone I grew up with than about someone I occasionally spoke with at work?"

"I thought," Charlie stammered, not sure where this conversation was going, "I mean, he had his desk across the aisle from you, and I was under the impression you got along well..."

"Yeah," Don said before he could utter more stammers, "we got along well. But you're my brother."

Charlie was effectively put to silence by that while his heart was beating forcefully in his chest, not daring to hope that his brother was saying what he thought he was saying.

"Geez, buddy, you do realize that there aren't a whole lot of people in this world that I care about as much as I care about you, don't you? I mean, you're pretty much on a par with Robin. So yeah, I guess I lost objectivity when it came to you consulting for us. I panicked, because the thought alone of you getting hurt hurts me, and scares me." He was searching Charlie's face and started shaking his head slightly. "Don't tell me that this is all news to you."

"Um..." Charlie started, but couldn't go on. His head was feeling hot. Of course he'd known that his brother cared about him in a way. He just would have never imagined the extent of it. To tell the truth, he'd been convinced that most days, Don's feelings of resentment towards him would still be stronger than all the positive feelings combined and that most of the worry he displayed was just a matter of familial duty.

Don sighed and put his arm around his shoulders, holding him close. His voice was soft when he said, "No offense, buddy, but measuring up other people and their feelings really isn't your strong suit."

Charlie nodded and cleared his throat, hoping that this would bring his ability of speech back. "Yeah," he croaked, "I guess not." His mind was still ruled by chaos, with all his memories, thoughts and feelings trying to find a more appropriate place that better fit this new information, but even with all the bustle going on, he was still aware that if there was a moment to make this acknowledgment, it was this one. "You know..." Wow. He wouldn't have considered it possible, but his voice was even more croaky than before. "I… I really care about you, too."

Don chuckled softly, tightening his hold. "I know, buddy. Not everyone's an idiot like you, you know," he said good-humoredly, ruffling Charlie's hair. Usually, Charlie hated it when people did that. Today, however, it made the chaotic remodeling in his mind slow down a little, giving him peace, and it made the lump in his throat melt and a rueful smile appear on his lips.

They sat in silence for a while, watching the sky turn darker. It was a warm night, the ground had heated up during the day and the wind around them was nothing but a mild breeze rustling in the trees, drowned by the clitter of the crickets around them. Soon, the first stars would appear and clear up the black cloth around them. For now, however, they had to rely on their other senses.

"Seriously, though," Don said after a while, his tone a little more sober. "We miss you at the office. So if you don't think it's too much for you too soon, we'd really love to have you back on the team."

Charlie turned his head to look at him, trying to decipher the expression on his face in the growing darkness. Don's features, going by the glimmer in his eyes, were uncharacteristically soft, there was nothing there from the hardened facade he knew from him.

The smile crept back on his face. "I'd like that, too," he said, his heart beating forcefully.

On Don's face too a smile appeared, Charlie could hear it in his voice, and in his inner eye, he could see how that smile accentuated the crow's feet around his brother's eyes. "Good," Don said, giving his shoulders a gentle squeeze. "Then welcome back, buddy."

They were sitting in complete darkness now, the only orientation being each other's eyes. There might have been dangers lurking in the wilderness around them, but all that didn't matter anymore. They were a team now, probably more so than they had ever been before, and each other's presence gave them a feeling of safety that was bordering on invincibility. There was no doubt that they could make it through everything the night might have in store for them, because there was a new day ahead of them now, and they were going to face whatever adventures it might hold, together.

\- The End -


End file.
